


Ravish

by Ludwiggle73



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Lawyers, Courtroom Drama, Drama & Romance, Gay Sex, Heavy Angst, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mutual Masturbation, Religious Content, no betas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2019-08-23 18:39:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 18
Words: 178,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16624334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: Francis Bonnefoy is a deputy district attorney with a track record that leaves a little to be desired, mostly because when he’s up against Arthur Kirkland—a hotshot defense attorney from the city—he’s almost guaranteed to lose. But when Francis is accused of a despicable crime, his friends become his enemies and his enemy must become his friend... and perhaps something more. The verdict of this case will change the lives of everyone involved and prove that small towns can hide secrets a lot better than one might think.[FrUK. PruCan. Spamano. DenNor. SuFin.]





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I did more research for this one than I think any fic I’ve ever written, because law is kinda complicated, innit? But this isn’t exactly realistic to real life; I’ve combined and altered and removed certain aspects, so if you notice something is wonky, it was definitely on purpose and definitely not something that confused me or that I didn’t know about. Definitely.
> 
> Conspiracy theory: this whole fic is just a ruse to write England in a suit with his hair slicked back. 
> 
> ...Shhhh.
> 
> Enjoy, lovelies  
> xo

**_RAVISH._ ** _V. 14th century._

  1. _to seize by violence_
  2. _to overcome with emotion_
  3. _to force another into sexual contact_
  4. _to deprive another of something desired or deserved_



* * *

 

 “If there is an Omega who is pair-bonded to an Alpha,

and another Alpha finds him in the city and ravishes him,

then you shall bring them both out to the gate of that city,

and you shall stone them to death;

the Omega, because he did not cry out in the city,

and the Alpha, because he has violated his neighbor’s mate.

Thus you shall purge the evil from among you.”

_—Book Five of the Holy Writ_

 

* * *

It’s dark.

It gets dark at suppertime now that November has taken hold, and this is well past the time for eating. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t hunger out there.

The Omega is walking by himself, arms tight around his midsection, hunched against the chill. It’s overcast tonight; the spaces between the streetlights feel like they stretch for a mile. He keeps his head down, gaze on the thin path he carves along the side of the road. _One wrong step,_ he thinks, reminded of his brother. _That’s all it takes._

He doesn’t hear the footsteps until they’re almost upon him. He looks up, squints through the shadow.

An Alpha is walking toward him. He’s unsteady on his feet, weaving between asphalt and gravel. Waves of blond hair, sickly pale in the weak light, fall messily across his face.

The Omega stops. Warily, he asks, “Are you okay?”

The Alpha stumbles to a halt, six feet away. He lifts his head just as the wind shifts; his nostrils flare as he takes in the sweet scent of the bundled Omega. He takes a step forward, then another. And another.

By the time the distance is closed between them, the Omega knows what he’s going to do.


	2. Call to Arms

The office is less of an office and more of a closet.

It has enough space for two desks each shoved against opposite walls, with chairs in between that more often than not end up rolling across the five feet that separates them so the Alphas of said office can share feedback, small talk, or snacks. Neither desk is the picture of organization. The one to the left appears clean on the outside, until you open a drawer and a veritable explosion of paperwork engulfs you and everything else in a two-mile radius. The one to the right wears its heart on its sleeve; it is a collage of scattered paperwork, assorted knickknacks, lavender potpourri, rainbow sticky notes. There is scarcely a bare spot left on the desk. But there is something that seems to have escaped the chaos, a frozen moment of peace: a framed photograph of three grinning Alphas, taken at a law school graduation ceremony. It could be a study in precious metals, the middle Alpha so pale he seems silver with his arms around bronze and gold, both of the latter in caps and gowns.

And it is that golden Alpha who bursts into the office now, the cuffs of his suit unbuttoned, shorter waves of hair escaping from his barrettes. (It’s his own fault for getting a layered cut, but he prefers the argument that courtrooms should allow lawyers to wear their hair down. Would that be so terrible?) He rushes to the messier desk and searches for the file he’d thought had been in his briefcase until Antonio suggested he check, just to make sure.

Antonio—haver of bronze skin, saver of asses—stands at the threshold, holding the door open. “I’ve done it too many times,” he’s saying. “You don’t want to end up facing the judge and asking for a recess to go get your stuff. Especially not against _him_.”

Francis pauses his search so the pair of them can collectively gag, then gives a triumphant _aha!_ and holds the sought-after file aloft. Antonio flaps his hands, and Francis laughs sheepishly at the urging and hurries to cram the file into his briefcase. “Merci, mon copain,” he says breathlessly as the pair of them jog toward the door, Francis struggling to fix his barrettes with his briefcase squeezed beneath one arm. Antonio accepts the burden from him, and Francis flashes a grateful smile marred by the plastic held between his lips.

To get out the front door they have to pass the secretaries; like the natural flow of water down a slope, Francis veers off from his exit-bound scurrying to lean across the high counter in front of their desks. The DA’s secretary is an older Omega and almost always on the phone; he ignores Francis now, holding the receiver with one hand and typing with the other. Lovino, however, covers all four assistant district attorneys and is by virtue of that obligated to look up. Francis smiles. Lovino scowls.

“We’re off to court,” Francis announces, deftly buttoning his cuffs.

“Fitting,” Lovino deadpans. “Since you’re lawyers.”

Francis only smiles wider. “You seem so tense, Lovino. I’m quite good at backrubs, if you’re interested.”

Lovino doesn’t even deign to respond to that. He turns his narrowed gaze on Antonio. “Don’t you have work to do, Mr. Carriedo?”

Antonio has no pressing responsibilities today, so he’s agreed to come along for moral support. “Well—”

Lovino arches an eyebrow. “It’s a rhetorical question. I’m your secretary. I know all the work you have to do.”

Francis shakes his head, delighted as always. “Such vinegar, Lovino. You must eat some sugar, or you’ll be pickled soon. Maybe I’ll bake you a batch of cupcakes someday.” He grins. “You can’t possibly frown like that once you’ve tasted my buttermilk icing.”

Behind him, Antonio gives Lovino an apologetic wave and tugs on Francis’s wrist. “You’ll be _late_ ,” he warns in a singsong voice, to make it seem less like nagging.

“Wish me luck!” Francis calls as he once again returns to his journey, Antonio following close behind. They both listen, but no response comes from the Omega; none that they can hear, anyway.

The DA office is, like most things, only a ten-minute walk from the courthouse. Today is warm for November, but the pair of Alphas still scamper along like they’re spurred on by the chill. Being cold and being nervous are quite similar; both make you shake, fear for your well-being, and wish you could be anywhere else. Francis takes deep, autumn-scented breaths as their shoes crunch leaves on the sidewalk. He prefers summer, but there is something to be said for the color and texture of fall. “I love this town,” he says, because in his experience anxiety is much better eased by positivity than the opposite. “Everything’s in walking distance.”

“Except when it’s snowing,” Antonio says, ducking his head at a sudden brisk breeze.

“Speak for yourself.” Francis might not like subzero temperatures, but he does love the whimsy of winter, the park full of snow sculptures and red-cheeked pups made marshmallows by their snowsuits. Not to mention Christmas!

Antonio swerves to nudge Francis’s side with his own. “You’re the one who busts out that winter coat as soon as the leaves change.”

Another time Francis would enter into a friendly play-fight, but right now he needs to be as polished as possible, so he just returns the nudge and continues on before it can escalate. Despite Antonio’s warning, they are not late and in fact they trot up the courthouse steps with several minutes to spare. Once Francis checks in with the court clerk—who blushes when Francis compliments his hair—he sits down beside Antonio in the waiting area of the lobby. “See,” he murmurs, “the Omegas here don’t bite your head off for telling them how nice they look.”

Antonio shrugs. “Not all Omegas like to be flirted with, I guess.”

“Who wouldn’t want to be told they’re beautiful?” Francis can’t imagine it. He thinks people are too stingy with compliments in common conversation; how many people are like he used to be, pretending to be more confident than they really are, wishing someone would give them flattering attention. No one would ever admit it, for fear of seeming narcissistic, but he knows it’s real. Shy Alphas are at a disadvantage; Omegas aren’t encouraged to be the ones initiating things. Francis made the mistake of waiting for someone to notice him in high school, and now he’s making up for it.

“I don’t know what you see in him,” Francis continues. “I mean, he’s got nice skin and legs, don’t get me wrong, but—you really want someone like that for a mate?”

“Sure, he’s feisty.” Antonio smiles, unabashedly fond. “I like feisty Omegas. I like somebody who’ll argue with me, who’s not afraid to tell me I’m wrong. It keeps you on your toes. Plus, letting an Omega take charge sometimes is sexy, don’t you think?”

Dubious, Francis says, “If—”

“Why, yes, I do.”

Both Alphas leap to their feet. Arthur Kirkland, distinguished in a fine English-cut suit with his hair slicked back, smirks at the startled pair before him. “I had no idea you had such appreciation for Omegas like me, Mr. Carriedo.”

Francis grimaces, and Antonio lifts an arm to cough into the crook of his elbow; the cloud of cologne surrounding the English Omega is almost overpowering. “Ugh, I thought I smelled synthetic musk,” Francis says, rubbing his nose.

Antonio swears in Spanish under his breath, then clears his throat. “You smell like the whole cologne shelf fell on you.”

Arthur’s eyes blaze with green fire, but the smirk stays firmly in place. “Oh?” He raises a hand, middle finger erect. “And what does this smell like?”

Antonio doesn’t even bother to look affronted. “Depends how lonely you got last night.”

Francis stifles laughter. “I could give you some help with that, Kirkland.” He smiles as sweetly as he can. “Then you’d actually smell like an Alpha.”

Arthur’s smirk is gone now. He glares at them both, but maintains a mostly civil tone. “Tempting, but I only fuck people I acquit. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Off he struts. Francis can’t help but watch his hips swishing, especially with the flare of that suit. He’s faced Arthur in five trials so far, but he’s only won one. Today will be the sixth time they go to battle, but it’s also just a formality. Francis isn’t as nervous as he would be for a real trial; this is just a competency hearing, which Arthur requested almost immediately when this case began. Francis’s client, Matthew Williams, has accused Ivan Braginski of sexual assault. The facts are inescapable: Matthew is seventeen and has no family to stay with, he’s been living with Ivan Braginski for four months supposedly to help care for Ivan’s nephew Raivis, Ivan and Matthew began a consensual relationship at Ivan’s suggestion, one night Ivan forced Matthew to have sex with him. Francis was so pleased with the surety of the case that he offered a plea bargain: _Let’s just call this third degree sexual assault, forget the minor part. Five years and $5,000._ To his surprise (and annoyance) Arthur had just scoffed and motioned for a competency hearing. Francis’s client has no mental handicap, was not under any influence during the assault, and knows what consent is. This is, quite simply, a slam dunk.

Here comes his client now. Matthew is walking diagonal with Gilbert, not quite beside and not quite behind, always letting the Alpha lead the way. Matthew fiddles with the sleeves of his sweater, folding them down in smaller and smaller pleats. He avoids Francis’s gaze, even when he greets him.

“Hey,” Francis says, gently touching Matthew’s cheek. “Don’t fret. It’s just what we practised. I’ll ask you our questions, then Mr. Kirkland”—a grimace is shared between Antonio and Gilbert—“will ask you his. Then this part will be over with.”

Matthew smiles hesitantly. He used to shy away from Francis and Gilbert’s comforting touches, but now he longs for them. (Gilbert’s, especially.) As if sensing this, the German Alpha breaks off from his hushed conversation with Antonio to give Matthew’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze through his bulky layers of shirts and sweaters. Matthew’s smile spreads to his eyes, violet sparkles.

Francis smiles, too. “Ready?”

Matthew takes a deep breath, then nods. “I think so.”

Antonio and Gilbert both slap Francis on the back and sit down, because neither of them can come into the courtroom. Today it’s only the lawyers, the clients, and the judge. Francis offers Matthew his hand, and Matthew gratefully takes it. Going to court is stressful enough; going to court and having to face the man who raped you is borderline inhumane, in Francis’s opinion. There have been cases where victims were permitted to put up a screen around the witness stand, to protect them from the intimidating gaze of the perpetrator. But in a case like this, where Francis needs to assure the judge that Matthew is emotionally damaged, yes, but still able to recount events truthfully . . . the best possible outcome would be for Matthew to look Ivan right in the eye and show how strong Omegas really are.

Of course, Francis doesn’t expect that to happen. As a law professor once told him: _You don’t need to change the world. Just the judge’s mind._

In the courtroom, Arthur and Ivan look over from the defense table. The lawyers sit on the inside seats, but Ivan’s gaze—not angry, just faintly amused—has no trouble finding Matthew through Francis. “Ignore him,” Francis whispers. “Pretend he’s not even here.”

No sooner have Francis and Matthew sat down that the judge enters and they all have to rise again. “Be seated,” the judge says absently, settling down at the bench. He’s an older Alpha, one Francis has worked with multiple times; he’s not lecherous, but Francis has noted a tendency to go easier on Omegas than he does on Alphas. Still, there doesn’t seem to be any restraint in his irritation as he sizes up Matthew. “I was under the impression this was a competency hearing for a minor.”

“He’s seventeen, Your Honor,” Francis says, giving Matthew’s hand a little squeeze under the table.

“I see.” The judge rolls his gaze over to the defense table. “Is this really necessary, Mr. Kirkland?”

Arthur stands up, smoothing his jacket. “The fact that Mr. Williams falls beneath the age of majority is immaterial to this particular hearing, Your Honor. I’m just concerned about the reliability of his memory, that’s all.”

 _Oh, I’m sure you’re very concerned,_ Francis thinks. _What a compassionate defense attorney._

“Very well.” The judge gestures to the witness stand. “If you would, Mr. Williams.”

Francis hears Matthew gulp before he stands up and walks rather stiffly to the stand. His gaze immediately falls on Ivan; Francis leaps up before he can get distracted and start to panic. “Good morning, Matthew,” he says with a friendly smile. “How are you today?”

Matthew has to try twice to speak loud enough to be heard. “I’ve been better.”

Francis nods sympathetically. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen. I’ll be eighteen in two months.”

“Are you looking forward to it?”

A tiny, private smile curls his lips. “Yes.”

“Where do you live, Matthew?”

“Iris House.”

“What is that?”

“A shelter.” Matthew lifts his chin, just like they practised. “For Omegas without homes.”

“How long have you lived there?”

“Almost a month.”

“Where did you live before that?”

“At Ivan Braginski’s house.” The name still makes Matthew’s voice waver, but he doesn’t look away from Francis. _Good boy._

“How long did you live with Mr. Braginski?”

“Four months.” He shrugs. “Give or take a week.”

“Why did you move in with him?”

“To take care of his Omega nephew. Room and board was part of the job offer.”

“Did you have your own room in the house?”

“Yes.”

“Did you feel safe there?”

“Yes. For a while.”

“When did you start to feel unsafe?”

“After the first time we mated. I felt like he was pressuring me into it. I never said no, but I didn’t know what would happen if I did. I was scared he would hit me.” Matthew’s gaze drops to his hands. “Or worse.”

“Did you say no the night of the assault?”

“Yes. Lots of times.”

“Did he say anything back?”

“No. He just covered my mouth with his hand.”

“What happened afterward?”

“He left me alone in my bedroom. I went to the bathroom and tried to clean myself up. I shouldn’t have, I know, but I wasn’t thinking clearly.” A brief glance toward the judge. “At the time, I mean.”

“That’s understandable,” Francis says. “Do you know what consent is, Matthew?”

“Yes. It’s agreeing to do something.”

“Did you agree to have sex with Ivan Braginski that night?”

Matthew shakes his head and replies firmly, “No.”

Francis nods. “Thank you. No further questions.” He returns to his seat, giving Matthew one last encouraging smile before the reins are officially passed over to the opposition. _You can do it._

Francis has done his best to repress his accent now that he’s become a lawyer; a surprising amount of people have a hard time understanding him, and court is not a place to have muddy details. Arthur, on the other hand, lays his on as thick as possible. Francis knows why, too. What American would look at this prim, proper Englishman and hear his poised, posh enunciation and _not_ think he’s the smartest person in the room?

“You’ve already provided us with your definition of consent,” Arthur says, stepping to the side of the defense table and leaning his hip against it. “Did you agree to enter into a romantic relationship with Mr. Braginski?”

Francis brainstormed possible questions Arthur might ask Matthew, and this was one of them. Matthew nods. “I did. But that was before I knew what he might do to me.”

“So you’ve had consensual sex with Mr. Braginski before, age of consent notwithstanding.”

“Yes.”

Arthur nods. “Have you had sex with anyone else?”

“Objection!” Francis cries. “That’s irrelevant.”

“Sustained,” the judge says. “We’re not here to discuss our love lives, Mr. Kirkland.”

Francis smirks. Arthur ignores him, fixing a more intense gaze on Matthew. “Let me rephrase the question. Could you have had sex with someone else, without remembering it?”

Matthew’s brow furrows. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, the night of the assault, for instance. Were there any lights on in the room?”

“No.”

“Any moonlight coming through the windows?”

“No. The blinds were drawn.”

“So it was completely dark?”

“Yes.”

“Could you see Mr. Braginski’s face?”

Matthew deflates slightly. “. . . No.”

“And you said he didn’t say anything to you afterward?”

“No.”

“Anything before?”

“No.”

Arthur leans forward a little, clasping his fingers together. “Could you smell his scent?”

Matthew lifts his head. “Yes.”

“Had he slept in your bed before?”

Slight hesitation. “Yes.”

“So was the scent from him or from the bed?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“Did Mr. Braginski ever invite other Alphas into his home?”

“Yes. Often.”

“Did they ever stay the night?”

“Sometimes.”

“Were there other Alphas there that night?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does Mr. Braginski wear cologne?”

“Yes.”

“Was he wearing it that night?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know any other Alphas who wear cologne?”

“Yes. Lots.” To Francis’s absolute delight, Matthew adds, “And some Omegas, too. I can smell yours from here.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow now. He speaks quickly, pointedly, each question a round of ammunition. “Do you know what time it was when the assault began?”

“No.”

“Was there an alarm clock in the room?”

“I think so—”

“Did you see it when you opened your eyes?”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Do you remember what numbers were on it?”

Matthew’s defenses crumble; he wraps his arms around himself. “N-No.”

Arthur is relentless. “Do you remember how long the assault lasted?”

It’s too much. Matthew starts tearing up. “I don’t know.”

“Did he wear a condom?”

Matthew nods miserably, then remembers the rule of speaking out loud: “Yes.”

“Do you remember hearing the wrapper?”

Matthew hangs his head. “No.”

“Do you remember if it was windy outside? Raining?”

The weather is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Matthew bursts into tears and sobs, hands covering his face, _“I don’t know! I can’t! I can’t do this!”_

“Thank you.” Arthur leans back. “Nothing further.” He spreads his hands. “Your Honor, I don’t deny something terrible happened, but if it’s not one hundred percent clear who should be accused—”

“Enough, Mr. Kirkland, you’ve made your point,” the judge snaps. He turns to the witness stand, gaze softening. “Bailiff, take Mr. Williams out to compose himself while I talk to counsel in chambers.”

Francis watches the broad Alpha gently escort a whimpering Matthew out of the courtroom, then follows the judge to his private room. Francis and Arthur both go to enter at the same time; Francis yields, partly to be a gentleman and partly because if they did try to squeeze in simultaneously the smell of musk might make him faint. Francis is still reeling from how efficiently Arthur tore Matthew down. _Don’t be surprised,_ he tells himself. _He’s a defense attorney. Heartless._

The judge sighs as he sits down in a thick-cushioned chair. “As you said, Mr. Kirkland, the age of the witness is irrelevant to this hearing, so I’m ignoring it. I don’t doubt that he fully understands the concept of consent and can make decisions for himself. But I do doubt his ability to clearly remember the events of that night. It’s not a new revelation that traumatic events have a way of obscuring or altering one’s memory, and I believe that’s the case here. I believe the emotional toll of going to trial would not be worth unclear, potentially misremembered testimony. I find the witness incompetent to stand trial. Does the state wish to file any other motions?”

Francis can hardly believe the words that come out of the old Alpha’s mouth. Matthew was not at all incompetent when they practised this yesterday. He wouldn’t have been found incompetent, if the hearing had ended at Francis’s questioning. He cannot believe it. What happened to his slam dunk? _Arthur Kirkland happened._

The Omega is looking at him, but Francis doesn’t even take him in peripherally. “A motion to dismiss,” Francis replies, hating how the words are like sawdust on his tongue. “Without prejudice, Your Honor.”

 _Without prejudice_ so that maybe, if Matthew goes to therapy or regains some more details of the fateful night, he can take Ivan to court for this again. Even as Francis says it, though, he knows it’ll never happen. Matthew won’t want to go through this again, nor will he seek out memories of the worst thing that ever happened to him. Francis is struck once again with the utter injustice of it: to get on with their lives, victims need to ruin themselves for the sake of police reports and testimony. It makes him sick.

As they walk out into the hall, Arthur says, “Thanks for your time, Bonnefoy.”

Francis whirls on him. “How do you sleep at night?”

Arthur raises an eyebrow, unimpressed by the slight snarl in the Alpha’s words. “I recommend a down pillow. Feathers tend to poke.” He steps forward, so there’s only a few inches between them. “Think about it this way. You can’t have a prosecutor without a defense attorney, and vice versa. So, just consider me a necessary evil.”

“Evil,” Francis says, “is _exactly_ what I consider you.”

Arthur’s lips curl in the corners. “Five to one,” he says, and saunters off to find his client, but not without calling over his shoulder, “Better luck next time.”

Francis is slow about meeting up with his client and friends in the lobby, because he doesn’t want them to see him with hatred burning in his eyes. He takes a detour to the washroom—at least when Arthur is his opponent he never has to worry about running into him in here—and splashes water on his face. As he pats himself dry with paper towel, he meets his own gaze in the mirror. This version of Francis, Court Francis, looks bitter, arrogant, cold. He takes the barrettes out, tugs the band free, and runs his fingers through his hair until it’s loose and luxurious again. Then he unbuttons his cuffs and the top two buttons of his dress shirt. Then he tips his head back and allows himself a long, dark sigh.

It’s not that he absolutely, positively hates being a lawyer. It’s just that when he wins, all of this becomes worth it. When he loses . . .

_Better luck next time._

“There he is,” Gilbert says when Francis approaches. “We thought the redcoat must’ve cornered you.”

Antonio gives him a crooked, rueful smile. “You okay?”

Francis nods, which is as much as he’s willing to lie, before gently touching Matthew’s arm. “I’m so sorry.”

Matthew’s eyes are red and his nose is stuffy, but the dark spots where tears soaked into Gilbert’s shirt are the most telling clue that the Omega’s meek condolence is a lie: “It’s okay. You did your best.”

It’s a sweet thing to say, but Francis still takes it like a slap in the face. He looks down at his shoes, ashamed. _My best wasn’t good enough._

Gilbert’s fingertips are light on Matthew’s wrist; barely there, but still enough to draw a little smile from the Omega. “Let’s go get some hot chocolate, does that sound good?”

“Sounds good to me,” Antonio replies brightly while Matthew nods. The Spanish Alpha’s grin fades when he turns to Francis. “You coming, amigo?”

“No.” The response comes too quick and flat; Francis looks up at them and puts on an apologetic smile. “No, you enjoy yourselves. I need to get back to the office. Other cases to work on.”

Other cases to make up for this failed one.

Antonio slings an arm around Francis’s shoulders and squeezes him in a brief but heartfelt embrace. “We’ll still have some drinks tonight, yes?”

They’d planned on drinks of celebration at humiliating Arthur for the pointless hearing, but now Francis knows the tone will be completely different tonight. Still, he needs it. He doesn’t believe in running from problems or muffling bad feelings with drugs, but he will admit sometimes a man needs something to drown his sorrows in.

“Yes,” he replies, with what little enthusiasm he can muster. “We’ll make it a night to remember.”

* * *

He doesn’t actually fuck everyone he acquits. That would be ridiculous.

Some of them are ugly, for example.

But Ivan Braginski isn’t too hard on the eyes, especially when the clothes come off. He’s one of those Alphas you know must’ve given his poor dam a hard time when he was born; there’s no way Ivan spent the first weeks of his life in an incubator like Arthur did. Looking up at him from his knees, Arthur places Ivan’s height at about ten feet, but then again it’s hard to estimate accurately when you’re trying to deepthroat a Russian cock without choking and/or passing out.

Neither of those are options for Arthur. He’s a professional.

The ones he sleeps with—less than twenty percent of his clientele, not that he’s bothered to crunch the numbers—wouldn’t get anything out of it if they told. Sure, they could get interviewed by a journalist, but first they’d have to find a journalist who cared. Who would want to read about some defense attorney’s sex scandals with his clients? No one. It’s cut-and-dry: mating with a client is not illegal if it begins before or after the case, no one could ever use it against Arthur, and he gives a good enough fuck that no one would want to anyway.

He’s usually against being manhandled, but he lets Ivan pick him up and toss him onto the bed. Truth be told, it’s mostly to see those muscles get to work. Once he’s on the mattress, Arthur rolls over and up onto hands and knees. He’s not afraid of Ivan in the slightest—it’s unlikely Arthur would win a physical confrontation between them, but it’s even more unlikely Ivan would win an emotional one—and he knows how Alphas are. They might swear up one side and down the other they’d never force an Omega into anything, but once they get their dicks wet, all that chivalry is out the window. Boundaries need to be set and made resolute upfront, and constantly reinforced. Matthew’s mistake was saying yes in the first place; give an inch, the yard will be gone before you can blink. _Matthew’s mistake was being a teenager with low self-esteem,_ Arthur thinks. Ivan was probably the first Alpha to tell Matthew he loved him, for God’s sake. Innocence is such a deadly weapon.

Arthur puts those thoughts away and lets the door of his mental filing cabinet slam shut. Now is not the time for any of that.

Ivan cups Arthur’s face with one massive hand and leans down, gaze on Arthur’s lips. Arthur arches an _I don’t think so_ eyebrow. Ivan backs off immediately, instead climbing up and kneeling behind him. As two thick fingers push between slicked folds, Arthur wonders if Ivan is playing coy, only giving him the illusion of control. It doesn’t really matter either way. After all, at the end of the day, what does he have to lose?

Five minutes later, Ivan is bent close over Arthur’s back, pounding with abandon and growling into the nape of his neck. Arthur holds bunches of blanket in both fists, one side of his face grinding into the mattress with every thrust. Between the grunts of effort, the creak of the springs, the slap of flesh, the rasp of breath, and the agonized cries drawn from Arthur whenever Ivan hits him _there right there harder oh fuck me_ —he almost doesn’t hear his mobile phone ringing.

“Fuck me,” he mutters, disengaging from Ivan. The Alpha whines sharply at the lost contact, grabbing at Arthur’s hips. “Not you,” he snaps, crawling forward to grab his phone from his briefcase, which he left on the floor at the foot of the bed. The caller ID reads **DENSEN**. “ _Fuck_ me,” Arthur hisses, then clears his throat and answers, “Kirkland.”

“Congratulations, big shot,” Mikkel Densen says. Arthur moves the phone slightly away from his ear. One would think the senior partner of a law firm would know the appropriate volume with which to have a conversation over the phone, but one would be wrong. He can practically feel Mikkel’s grin busting through the speaker. “Just got the notice of your win. Ripped ’em to shreds, huh?”

Ivan strokes Arthur’s cleft with the tip of his cock, made smooth by the slick and the condom. Arthur puts a firm hand on Ivan’s firmer abs, to make it very clear that his body should not move past this point. “Thank you, sir,” he says, because for all he knows Mikkel has the whole partnership committee on speaker phone. “I did what I had to do, just like you always say.”

“Good man. How did Bonnefoy take it? Worse than last time?”

“I’d say so.” He pictures the French Alpha’s face, twisted with barely contained fury. Only a prosecutor could be righteous like that. No defense attorney would ever place so much of their own self-worth on their ability to _not_ abuse a shoddy legal system.

“Maybe you should send him flowers,” Mikkel says, tone light and fanciful because he did just that after the win that put him on the map—that is, sent a dozen roses to the DA who couldn’t shoulder the burden of proof that an Alpha had intentionally shot and killed his brother. That Alpha jumped off a bridge two years after he got acquitted, but again: not something a defense attorney lets himself care about.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly imitate you. The flowers would wilt and perish for the shame of it. They only serve their true master.” He talks this way at the office, too, and he sees the looks he gets from the other associates. Even from the secretaries, sometimes. If Mikkel wants to play favorites, that’s not Arthur’s fault. And nothing Arthur says could ever be strictly considered flirting, so Lukas can mind his own business.

Ivan loses his patience. Slowly, he pushes his cockhead inside, and Arthur bites his lip to keep from gasping. He doesn’t clench, lest it make Ivan moan. Instead, he reaches back and grasps the Alpha’s balls with a warning glare over his shoulder. Ivan goes still, eyes round.

“I hate to rush you,” Arthur says, “but I’ve got my hands full at the moment.”

“I’ll let you go, then. Just wanted to give my congrats, in case I forget when I see you. Exciting times, Kirkland!”

“Yes, indeed,” he agrees. “Farewell, Mr. Densen.”

“Oh, say _ta_. Gets me every time.”

“Ta, Mr. Densen.”

Muffled laughter, then at last the beep of an ended call. Arthur huffs a sigh and tosses his phone back onto his briefcase, propped open like an oyster on the floor.

“You kiss ass almost as good as you suck cock,” Ivan says, stroking his thighs.

“My mouth has more skills than you’ll ever get to witness.” Arthur lowers his weight onto his elbows and arches his spine into lordosis. “Now put your back into it.”

* * *

Gilbert usually drinks more than Francis and Antonio put together, so he doesn’t go to the pub as often as they do. Tonight it’s just the dynamic duo, and Francis puts away enough that the bartender clears his throat. Toris is a meek Alpha, from his quiet voice to his mousy hair, but he’s not afraid to hold authority in the business he inherited from his parents. It helps, too, that Francis and his friends are regulars and have given him permission to cut them off when necessary. “Maybe,” Toris says, “you should slow down.”

Antonio is only tipsy, but he nods. “You should, Fran.”

Francis is using one bent arm as a pillow on the bartop, the other wrapped protectively around the bottle of vodka. It started out as tiramisu shots, but soon degraded into straight vodka. When Antonio tries to take the bottle, Francis’s grip tightens and he gives an incoherent protest, more groan than growl.

“Okay, tough guy.” Antonio pries the bottle free and hands it to Toris. “Take a break.”

Francis sits up straight, with some effort. “ _Ugh._ I’m alright. One more, come on.”

Toris glances at Antonio, who shakes his head. Toris gives a little nod and moves away to serve another patron. Antonio rubs circles into Francis’s back. “I know you’re upset, but we have to work tomorrow. You hate getting up early on a good day.” When Francis doesn’t look at him, Antonio wraps a strand of golden hair around his finger, an old habit from long study sessions. Antonio could sigh and complain all he wanted, but once he started playing with Francis’s hair the French Alpha would always surrender and join his roommate in something undoubtedly unproductive and entertaining. “You’ll feel like shit tomorrow,” Antonio murmurs.

Francis disentangles the bronze hand from his hair. “I deserve to feel like shit.”

Antonio’s gaze softens with empathy. He’s lost plenty of cases to Arthur Kirkland, more than Francis simply because he’s faced the English Omega more times. Antonio has never been afraid to put himself out there, and he throws himself into whatever case comes in his direction—while Francis, on the other hand, is more inclined to shy back. Antonio has taken several cases to trial that Francis could have handled, but passed off to his friend instead. _I have plenty of misdemeanors to deal with. Traffic tickets don’t sort themselves out!_ Antonio always feels a little guilty when Francis loses a case; he was the one who convinced his flatmate to go to law school with him, back when they were just high school graduates scraping together enough money for independence. Neither of them really knew what they wanted to do; it was actually Francis who joked about law school. But the thought stuck with Antonio, and soon infected Francis too. _I mean, you like to argue, right? Let’s do it._ It turned out to be significantly more reading than arguing, but neither of them are terrible at reading. Antonio knows Francis struggles most with presenting such a formal, restricted, _muted_ version of himself. He has amassed a rainbow of ties, because they are the only part of courtroom wardrobe that can be colorful. But losing, letting people down—that’s why Francis lacked confidence in the first place.

When he helps someone, it’s a joyous occasion. When he fails, it’s devastating.

“Just go home, Toni,” Francis mumbles, crossing his arms on the bar and burying his face in them. Muffled: “I’ll catch up.”

If they were driving home, Antonio would call them a cab and drag Francis along with him. But their flat is only a fifteen-minute walk from the pub, and even someone blind drunk couldn’t get lost in a town this small. Antonio stands up. If he wanted to be alone, he’d rather do it at home under a blanket, but therein lies the difference between himself and his friend; Antonio finds solitude in an empty room, and Francis feels most alone surrounded by people who don’t bother to see him.

“Don’t worry,” Toris says, smiling kindly at them both. “I’ll call you if he falls down or starts slurring stories about law school.”

Antonio gives Francis’s back one last pat of farewell and gives the bartender a grateful wave. “Okay. Talk to you later, Toris. See you when you get home, amigo.”

If Francis says anything, it’s lost to the acoustics of his arms and the palaver of the pub.

* * *

The next morning, Arthur wakes up—in his own bed, obviously, he wasn’t staying on Ivan Braginski’s creaky mattress any longer than needed—satisfyingly sore in the muscles and troublingly tender in the nethers. He spreads and scissors his legs beneath the covers and winces at the tiny stabs of pain. _Probably could have done with some lube last night._ He’s far from prudish about that sort of thing; it’s not as if it makes sex _impure_ to add extra lubrication to the naturally produced slick. It’s just remembering to have a bottle on hand that’s the hard part. _Oh well._ It won’t be the first time he’s walked round the office stifling a limp. Just have to remember to sit down carefully, that’s all.

He downs a cup of tea—the first of many for the day—on the commute to the office and arrives, as usual, ten minutes before the partners even show up. The secretaries always get in early, though, so the doors aren’t locked. None of them even glance as he walks by; the workday has yet to begin and the caffeine has yet to kick in, so they are little more than marionettes being set in their places on the stage. Arthur fixes a second cup of tea with the kettle in his office. When he runs this firm someday, he’s pushing the clock-in time forward an hour. _And making it mandatory that every attractive client provide lube._ He smiles faintly into the wisps of steam.

There’s no mystery when Mikkel arrives; his voice echoes off every black marble surface in the high-ceilinged lobby. Arthur hurries out to stand with his back against a redundant but fancy pillar, watching Mikkel and Lars. They’re cousins, and even a prosecutor could see the resemblance: both big blond Alphas, tall in stature and in hair, and both imposing albeit in different ways. Mikkel is always smiling, except when he isn’t, and when he isn’t—watch out. Lars is the opposite; if even a hint of a smile touches those lips, batten down the hatches. Both are ludicrously handsome in their suits, as usual; Arthur needs the tea to function, but the sight of Lars flicking an arm out to pull back his cuff so he can check his watch and Mikkel’s chest straining against his dress shirt as he stretches his arms with a yawn . . . well, now he’s awake.

“Good morning again, kære,” Mikkel says, sitting on the edge of Lukas’s desk. The office’s lobby is mostly taken up by a corral of secretaries—basically, a big grid of desks—and Lukas is front and center. This is by design. For one thing, Lukas has the most experience with the firm, so it makes sense that he’s the first face you see when you walk in. For another, Mikkel doesn’t want to have to weave his way through a herd of Omegas to reach his mate.

“Good morning. How was your commute?” Lukas asks. He doesn’t look up from the papers he’s leafing through. At first glance, one might think he and Mikkel are in a rocky stage of their relationship. But in truth, they’ve reached a point of comfort with each other that they no longer cling like so many young couples do. Lukas has always been fiercely independent—a trait a certain English Omega envies him for—and Mikkel has finally eased off on his intense protectiveness. Would Mikkel have let Lukas and Emil commute without him when he was twenty? Absolutely not. Now that he’s pushing forty, he can rest assured—literally—that nothing will happen to his mate and brother-in-law and allow himself an extra half hour of sleep. Anyone dangerous enough to consider harming Lukas knows who Mikkel is, anyway, and nobody fucks with Mikkel Densen, Esq. He’s carved himself a reputation to ensure that.

“Boring,” he replies, smoothing down a flyaway curl of his mate’s hair. “Speaking of, what time is the committee meeting today?”

“Two-thirty,” Lukas and Lars reply in unison. Lukas swats at his hand. “As if you didn’t know.”

Mikkel smiles, tickled pink. “I love asking you for times. You’re the sexiest watch I’ve ever seen.”

Lukas only rolls his eyes, resuming his work.

“A watch doesn’t tell you when things will happen,” Lars points out.

“The sexiest calender, then,” Mikkel says, but he’s not paying attention to what’s coming out of his mouth. His gaze has landed on Arthur, and he strides over so quickly it seems those long legs could span the whole office if they tried. “Congratulations, Kirkland! In person, this time. I like to do things properly, you know.”

To that end, he grabs Arthur’s hand and gives a shake so firm and rigorous Arthur has to keep his feet planted or risk being flung to the floor. Lars steps beside Mikkel and Arthur’s hand disappears into his, too, but the shake is so brief Arthur wonders why he even bothered.

“It’s almost a shame, though,” Mikkel is saying. “There would’ve been a lot of publicity around that, if it went to trial.” He lifts his hands to frame the headline in the air. “ _Lawyer Destroys Fellow Omega_ , something catchy like that.”

“Well,” Arthur demurs, “I don’t know if I’d use the word _destroy_ —”

“No?” Mikkel arches an eyebrow. “A partner would use that word.”

Arthur perks up instantly. “It does have a certain appeal to it, doesn’t it?”

Mikkel grins, but Lars remains solemn as he says, “Nothing is a surety, of course.”

“Of course.” Arthur inclines his head, hoping to convey respect without repentance, because the one thing he will never be—especially as the only Omega in this firm—is an apologetic, whimpering people-pleaser. He will do his job, and he’ll do a damn good job of it, and he’ll brownnose every bastard with power until he comes out on top, but he will never avoid someone’s gaze. He will never hunch his shoulders or hug himself. He will never look to someone else for protection.

There’s a reason he’s the only Omega lawyer in this firm and indeed in this city, and one of the few in this state. A lawyer needs to have the balls to stand up in front of a room full of people and argue with conviction that he is correct. Omegas have no physical balls, and in Arthur’s experience most don’t have emotional ones, either.

Which is why he appreciates his secretary, Emil. He’s Lukas Bondevik’s brother, so naturally he carries himself with some of the self-assured air Lukas exudes so effortlessly. Emil is four years younger and only two years older than Arthur; in another life, perhaps, they would be friends. But here Arthur only talks work, and Emil has more or less resigned himself to that.

“Any calls?” Arthur asks. Victims find prosecutors in the daytime, but villains cry out for defense attorneys in the wee, evil hours of morning. Not always, granted, but it’s a nice image and Arthur needs the badass vibes to get his dignity back after that exchange with Lars. He doubts a decision will be made by the partnership committee today; this is only their first meeting. They’ll put together a list, most likely. Arthur’s name will be on it, just like last year. The difference between then and now is Arthur has made a marked effort to ingratiate himself with the partners—and he’s added a laundry list of acquittals to his record. _First Omega to become senior partner of a law firm._ Well, that wouldn’t be too shabby, now would it?

“Yes,” Emil replies. “A message from last night. Or, this morning. _Three_ in the morning, to be precise. Sadik got caught driving on a suspended license. Again.”

Arthur shakes his head. The Turk was a good lay, but he should plead guilty as far as Arthur is concerned. Laws exist for a reason; his job isn’t to go around helping people break them. “He couldn’t afford me last time,” he says. “He can get a public defender.” He turns to walk away. “I’ve done my charity hours.”

* * *

Mornings at the parsonage are unerringly infused with the warm scents of butter and coffee. They are all generally inclined to break their fast with the light Italian fare of cappuccino and cornetto—lack of greedy indulgence in fat and sugar makes mornings feel more godly—but today, Feliciano wakes with the bitter taste of despair on his tongue.

Lovino, who shares the bedroom with him, steps in with hair still damp from the shower. “You’re not coming to breakfast?”

Feliciano pulls the blanket up to his nose. He’s not hungry. He wouldn’t mind if he never ate again. He doesn’t fake very much of his whimpery, pitiful tone—because he does really feel bad, and because it’s pointless lying to his brother, anyway. “I don’t feel well.”

Lovino presses his lips together, then sits down on the edge of the twin bed. Their room is split in two; Feliciano’s side is done in yellow, Lovino’s in pink. Lovino has abandoned his childly love for the color, but he knows Feliciano likes it, so he hasn’t asked the reverend to change it. He holds the back of his hand to his brother’s forehead, but it’s no warmer than it would normally be. Feliciano’s eyes are searching his face, so he tells him, “It’ll be okay.”

Whether it’s because Feliciano doesn’t believe him or just because he’s touched that Lovino is trying to comfort him, Lovino can’t tell—but Feliciano is tearing up, now. Lovino sighs and leans down to kiss his unfevered forehead. “Stay home today. I’ll come see you at lunchtime.”

Feliciano sniffles, whispers, “Thank you, Lovi.”

Lovino turns the light off, closes the bedroom door, and goes downstairs. Roma Vargas is sitting at the table, reading the paper while the toaster oven warms up the custard cornetti Feliciano made yesterday. He’s in his sixties, so his face has its fair share of wrinkles, but he’s got that charming Alpha quality that makes so many public school Omegas develop crushes on their teachers. Besides, the wrinkles amplify his expressions: his warm smile flips to a concerned frown when Lovino steps into the kitchen without a little brother in tow.

“Is Feli alright?” the reverend asks.

Lovino starts to nod, then shrugs. “He says he doesn’t feel well. He’ll stay home from school today.”

By now, Roma is used to the authority Lovino claims over his little brother’s affairs. It’s only natural; they grew up in foster homes before Roma adopted them and gave them his surname, so Lovino was the only one to protect Feliciano. Roma believes in Alphas protecting Omegas, but he admits when no Alpha can be found, Omegas must sometimes take up the helm until they can resume their rightful role. He’s done his best to be a father figure for the boys, but of course what’s best would be for them to find faithful mates. Feliciano isn’t yet of age; Roma is still waiting for Lovino to find an Alpha to claim him. He understands that small towns make things like that difficult, but he’s suggested multiple bachelors Lovino knows from Mass, all of them polite and respectful young Alphas. Lovino has rejected them all. _Perhaps he’ll follow a holier path,_ Roma sometimes thinks. _Nuns can’t take mates, after all. He wouldn’t need one, then._

“That’s a shame,” he says, making a mental note to say a little prayer of wellness for Feliciano. “I’ll check in on him between this morning’s service and volunteering at the youth center.”

Lovino turns away, so the reverend won’t see the hint of a sneer on his face. Does he need to rub in his holiness like that? _I have a job. I don’t have time to volunteer,_ he rationalizes. But really, would he volunteer even if he did have free time to do it? Probably not. He grew up feeling sorry for only himself and his brother; extending it to others was never key to survival, and was in fact detrimental in some instances, so it’s a difficult mindset to adopt now.

“No,” Lovino says, “don’t bother. I’ll come home on my lunch break.”

“Alright,” Roma says, and tries to brighten the conversation: “Well, if Feli’s not coming to breakfast, I guess that means you get the biggest cornetto—”

“Actually, I’m not really hungry this morning. I’ll stop at the deli if I want something by then.”

Roma watches him take the plate of pastry from the toaster oven and place it on the table. The Omega already has his satchel slung over his shoulder; he’s in grey slacks and a modest blouse with a navy blazer, topcoat, and scarf to keep out the chill. Roma is struck by how adult he looks. _Only twenty-one,_ he thinks, _and working to stop crime._ In a roundabout way, yes, but priests are well known for the sentiments of _every action has an affect somewhere_ and _every little bit counts._

“Okay,” Roma says. “Have a good day, Lovino.”

“You, too.”

He doesn’t ask Lovino to linger while he says grace— _Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty_ —but he knows the Omega does, because he only hears the front door close as he’s lifting his head. His gaze falls on the table, and he smiles. The largest of the custard cornetti has been taken, after all.

* * *

Antonio and Francis have separate bedrooms, but their alarms are set for the same time, so the assault on Francis’s brain is doubled. Tripled, when Antonio invades to nudge Francis’s shoulder. Francis gives only a groggy growl in response, which has Antonio’s lips twitching, instinctively trying to bare his teeth. He shakes the territorial feeling away and warns,  “Don’t make me pull you out of this bed, Bonnefoy. I’ll do it.”

Francis grasps the edge of the blanket and tugs it over his head, which is buried as deep as it can get into his pillows.

Antonio crosses his arms over his chest. “Francis.”

A muffled croak: “Laisse-moi mourir.”

“It’s Friday,” Antonio says, tugging on the blanket. “You can die all you want tomorrow.”

Their tug-of-war is short lived; Antonio has the high ground and sobriety on his side. Francis grabs Antonio’s wrist, but Antonio just takes the opportunity to haul Francis upright. Francis growls again, so Antonio returns the gesture, letting his gaze burn into Francis’s. It only takes a moment for Francis to fall silent and look away, rubbing his hands down his face. “Sorry.”

Antonio delicately brushes a strand of hair from Francis’s forehead, both acceptance and a bit of apology of his own.

Francis doesn’t speak until they get to the office (he gives only a disgusted shake of the head when Antonio offers him scrambled eggs). It’s windy this morning, and the cold air whistling past his ears doesn’t make Francis’s head pound any less. In fact, it does the opposite. As they pass the secretaries, Antonio’s cheerful greeting is met with the usual impassive mutter from Lovino, but when Francis doesn’t offer anything the Italian Omega pops up behind the counter. “What’s wrong with you?”

Everything seems more intense when he’s hungover, including scents; the cream on Lovino’s breath has him wanting to retch. Antonio sees—and smells—this and puts a sympathetic arm around Francis. “He had a rough night.”

The older secretary tuts and shakes his head without lifting it. “This is what happens when you can walk to a pub.”

Antonio starts to protest, but Lovino interrupts, one eyebrow arched: “You walked home drunk?”

Francis scratches at his chin, but the scritch of fingernails against stubble buzzes too harshly in his head. He’s beginning to wonder if it would’ve been better to call in sick, even though he has nothing exciting or demanding to do today. “Euh . . . Staggered, I guess.”

Lovino narrows his eyes in what Francis knows must be disapproval. How depressing, to be called irresponsible by someone a decade younger than himself. “Do you even _remember_ last night?”

Trying to think about what happened after he left the pub just makes his head hurt. He’s more likely to pass out than make sense of his brain right now. “No, and I honestly prefer it that way.” Once he gets rid of the hangover, he’ll be back to normal and leave the bad stuff behind him. He just needs to make it through this morning. _Easier said than done,_ he thinks, nausea starting to swirl in his stomach.

Antonio herds Francis away, but both of them see Lovino watching them, eyes narrowed to slits.

* * *

Against the odds, Francis feels better by lunchtime.

“Good,” Antonio says, a smile blooming. “Let’s go get sandwiches.”

Francis waits for the swell of nausea, but it doesn’t come. Hunger, on the other hand, has him rising swiftly from his seat and grandly placing a hand on Antonio’s shoulder. “Mon copain, that’s the best idea you’ve had all day.”

They jostle and laugh their way to the entrance, but pause at the door. Lovino, who normally stays behind the front desk to eat the lunch he or his brother prepared the night before, is nowhere to be seen.

“Strange,” Antonio remarks.

Francis shrugs. “It’s his free time. And, more importantly, ours. Let’s go.”

* * *

Feliciano is still in bed when Lovino walks in. He’s been crying, Lovino can tell; if the puffy, reddened eyes weren’t a dead giveaway, the fact that Feliciano won’t look at him is. Lovino sets his brother’s lunch box on his chest and sits down beside him with his own bag on his lap. Feliciano pushes himself up to a sitting position, but he doesn’t eat. Lovino doesn’t, either. They sit with their food and their silence for a long moment.

“Feli,” Lovino says.

He feels Feliciano’s body go tense under the covers.

“You need to do it now,” Lovino says, not bothering to soften his tone. This is nothing to be soft about. This is real life. This is happening.

Feliciano shakes his head, face hidden.

Lovino reaches to grasp his brother’s chin. The skin beneath is soft, with a layer of invisible baby fuzz, and wet with the tears that have begun to stream down. “I didn’t tell the reverend,” Lovino says. “But this can’t be secret forever, you know that. It has to be now, Feli.”

Miserably, after a few shaky breaths, Feliciano nods.

They don’t end up eating. Lovino helps Feliciano get dressed, lets him hold his hand as they walk to the police station, and speaks up when the desk sergeant asks how they can be helped. _We can’t,_ Lovino thinks, but he replies, “We need to speak to Detective Beilschmidt.”

They have no trouble finding Gilbert’s office—marked SVU in stark black letters—and Lovino raises his free hand to knock, as instructed. The door opens after a brief pause, and Gilbert’s gaze starts above their heads before dropping a foot to find them. _To be expected,_ Lovino supposes, _when you only work with Alphas._ This all strikes him as pretty unprofessional, especially the crumbs Gilbert hurries to wipe from the corners of his mouth, but it is lunchtime in a small town precinct. Lovino should probably lower his expectations.

“Hello,” the detective says, with a tiny nod of respect. These are the reverend’s Omegas, after all. Angels in the making. “What can I do for you?”

Lovino nods to his brother. “Tell him.”

Panic and dread brighten Feliciano’s eyes as he looks first to his brother, then to Gilbert. He struggles to meet the Alpha’s gaze, and all that comes out of his mouth is a whimper.

Gilbert’s severe face softens. “It’s alright. Here, do you want to sit down?” He easily lifts and rotates a padded chair opposite his desk. Feliciano sinks into it gratefully, and Gilbert kneels like he’s addressing a child. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

In the doorway, Lovino doesn’t hug himself like his brother, but his hands are clasped at his back and his nails nearly break the skin where they dig in. “You have to tell him, Feli.”

“It’s alright,” Gilbert says again, when Feliciano’s face falls. “Take your time.”

He takes a long, deep breath. He lifts his head, looks into the fascinating grey-red of the detective’s eyes. And he speaks the words that have eaten him up inside, that will now spread through the lives of others like the most insidious virus:

“I was raped last night.”

* * *

“Merci beaucoup,” Francis says, winking at their server at the deli. “You look lovely today, by the way.”

The Omega—another person in Toris’s position, working in the family business more out of obligation than anything resembling ambition—shakes his head at Francis, but giggles too. Francis and Antonio both watch his hips as he walks away, both thinking the same thing: _What a cute little apron._

(Among other thoughts, of course.)

“So,” Antonio says, tucking lettuce into his cheek, “have you learned your lesson?”

Francis winces through a sip of coffee—Antonio insisted black is better for a hangover than the sweet-smelling latte he’s mocking Francis with—and quirks an inquiring brow.

“No more Thursday night benders?”

“ _Oh_. Yes. I mean, no, no more.” Francis crumples up the wrapping of his sandwich and tosses it at the can near the door. It bounces off the rim, drops to the floor. “Zut.”

“The AC’s on,” Antonio says, sitting back in his chair. “Foul play.”

“That’s what it was.” Francis rises to perform the walk of shame and stoops to pick up the ball of paper. “It’s been a long time since I was blackout drunk. It’s scary. Imagine if something important happened last night. I would have no idea.”

“Something important,” his friend repeats, bemused. “What important happens on a Thursday night?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I could have met the love of my life and told him I would remember his number. I’d never be able to find him again.” Francis turns to Antonio, pouting. “Can you imagine how tragic that would be?”

“I guess he would be the love of your life, if he can fall for you _that_ drunk. I haven’t seen you that far gone since our grad party.”

Francis’s reminiscing is ended before it even begins when the door crashes open. Francis whirls, thinking the wind has blown the door right off its hinges until he recognizes Gilbert’s broad shoulders in the doorway. Francis and Antonio both have an invitation on their lips, but Gilbert’s grim expression keeps them both silent.

“I need to have a word,” Gilbert says. It’s his detective voice, the one that betrays nothing but a strong _Do not fuck with me_ vibe. Francis had forgotten what it sounded like. He didn’t miss it.

“Sit down, Gil,” Antonio says, starting to pull over a chair. The scrape of metal across tile has all three of them cringing.

“No,” Gilbert says firmly. “I mean at the station.” His gaze settles heavily on Francis. “Just you.”

Slowly, Francis and Antonio exchange a glance, wordlessly asking each other if either of them know what’s going on. Neither do, but Francis’s mind is full of worst case scenarios. _Something has happened to Matthew._ What if yesterday really was too much for him? What if Francis let him down too much? Now he feels ill. _Please, not Matthew._ _Anything else._

They leave Antonio to finish his sandwich by himself. Gilbert doesn’t say anything on the drive to the precinct (even in a town this small, the cops never walk anywhere), doesn’t make a sound until they’re in an interrogation room. Uncertainty nags at Francis as he stands in a room he’s seen countless times before from the outside, on television and in movies and just right here when Gilbert showed him around. Four grey walls. Grey floor, grey ceiling. A table with chairs on either side of it. Nothing else.

Gilbert closes the door behind him and sits down on one of the chairs.

Francis stares at him until he realizes he’s waiting for Francis to sit, too. His voice comes out wobbly, bubbled by laughter that sounds like fear. “Is this a joke?”

Gilbert crosses his arms over his chest, impassive. “Does this seem funny to you?”

Francis’s mouth goes dry. He eases himself into the chair gingerly, because at this point he wouldn’t be surprised if gravity abruptly decided to take the afternoon off.

Gilbert is still totally unreadable. Francis can’t believe how unfamiliar he looks. It’s like when your family dog bites someone; how can you look at it the same after that? “Do you want to talk about what happened last night?”

“What do you mean?” He twists in his chair, looking for cameras even though he knows there is one, probably recording right now, on the other side of tinted, one-way glass. “Is this an intervention or something? Look, I was just upset, that’s all. I thought I could handle more than I could. It won’t happen again. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Gilbert stares at him for a full minute. The hair at the nape of Francis’s neck stands up; his body wants him to look away or fight back. Just looking at his challenger, frozen, is unnatural. But that’s what he does, until Gilbert inhales shortly and says, “You’re under arrest for sexual assault of a minor.”

Francis can’t breathe. “Wh . . . what?”

“You have the right to remain silent.”

 _Sexual assault._ He would never! He can’t even think of it!

“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

 _Of a minor._ How minor? That’s anything from seventeen to . . . He’s going to be sick.

“You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford—”

Francis’s brain catches on that particular word, snagged like a thread on a splinter of wood, ready to unravel if pulled the wrong way. “Attorney! I need to call my attorney. I—I get a phone call.” But he’s only ever seen that in movies, he’s never been _arrested_ before. “. . . I do, don’t I?”

Perhaps it’s because he hears the note of terror in Francis’s voice. Perhaps it’s because he sees the distraught horror on Francis’s face. Whatever the reason, Gilbert sprinkles a dash of kindness over his order: “Come with me.”

That little taste of the friend Francis knew so well twenty minutes ago only makes him more upset. _Here is what you can no longer have._ Francis wants this cruel joke to find its punch line. He wants to wake up from this nightmare. He wants to go back to the deli and order another sandwich—he’d still been hungry, before this happened—and split it with Antonio. He’ll make sure there’s more tomato on Antonio’s side. Antonio will smile. All will be right in the world.

Gilbert leads him to a phone, a huge beast hanging on the wall like the head of some game animal. The buttons are worn smooth; he wonders how many criminal fingers have touched them, how many bloody hands have held the receiver he now lifts to cradle his head.

 _Breathe in, breathe out._ Lawyers don’t get hysterical. They stay cool under pressure. They stare down each obstacle presented to them and tackle their problems head-on. This will be a challenge. What did his professors say? And, come to think of it, what have Antonio and Basch Zwingli, their boss, been echoing? _You need to start challenging yourself. Get out of your comfort zone._

Well, here he is.

He has to think for a few moments to remember the number. He has it programmed into his mobile, but that’s sitting in his office, still on silent lest its various chimes and squawks initiate another migraine. He’s only ever called the number for work-related matters. _That’s what this is,_ he reminds himself. _This is his job._ He shivers, even though the boiler in the basement is working overtime. _Now I’m the client._

It takes three long rings, with an ostensibly impatient Gilbert standing a few feet away the whole time, before an answer comes. “Kirkland.”

He thinks he’s about to faint until he realizes it’s just a tidal wave of relief crashing down on him. “I need you to represent me,” he says in a rush, then adds sheepishly after a pause, “This is Francis Bonnefoy.”

“Yes, I can hear you.” There’s the distinct sound of liquid being sipped from a cup. “What might be the accusation?”

There’s no outright ridicule, but Francis knows he’s not taking it seriously. He wouldn’t be surprised if Arthur thought Francis and Antontio were prank calling him. Things like this just don’t happen. _But it is happening._ Every second, he has to rein in his feelings, swat away the swarm of anxious thoughts in his head. So many questions he simply doesn’t know the answer to. _So this is how Matthew felt._ This is why lawyers are important. They have the answers, and if they don’t, they’ll find them. Francis has to trust Arthur to do that for him. _Oh, God . . ._

He can barely get the words out. His voice shakes, then dips to a whisper. “Sexual a-assault of a minor.”

In the corner of his eye, he sees Gilbert look down at the floor. Unbeknownst to each other, both Alphas stifle a whine, heartbroken by each other’s sorrow.

“Alright.” Arthur is all business now, a shift so overt and offhand it startles Francis. “You’re at the station?”

“Yes.”

“Has he interrogated you?”

Francis wonders if _he_ refers to Gilbert. Arthur would assume he’s the arresting officer, being the only SVU detective in the county. “No. Not really.”

“Don’t say a word to him until I get there. Don’t even look at him. Understand?”

Arthur sounds harsher than Gilbert did. Is this how he always talks to his clients? Francis imagines a workday of dealing with crazy, disrespectful, unpredictable perpetrators. _Making criminals look innocent._ His heart sinks. _I am a criminal now._

“Yes,” he whispers into the mic, barely audible.

“Good. I’m on my way.”

Arthur hangs up before Francis can say anything else. He doesn’t put the receiver back right away; instead, he stands rooted in place, listening to the steady hum of the dial tone in his ear, astonished by how helpless and alone he now feels.


	3. Taking Sides

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bail is a broken thing and I don't want to think about it ever again -_-

Dr. Honda signed up for this, but that doesn’t mean he enjoys it.

For the longest time, there were no Omega doctors, teachers, engineers, leaders. Things are slowly but surely turning around. He’s the only resident Omega in the town’s hospital, and the principal of the elementary school is the only Omega principal in the school board, and there’s an Omega defense attorney who lives in the city but often appears in the town courthouse; though, in that last case, Dr. Honda sometimes thinks it’s better for Omegas to remain in more subservient roles if it prevents such ire from being unleashed on undeserving victims.

Being cross-examined by Arthur Kirkland is enough to make most Omegas want to duck behind their Alphas. Dr. Honda doesn’t have an Alpha—completely for lack of trying—so he’s settled on a spine, instead.

As the only Omega doctor, he is the one Omegas are brought to when they suffer abuse, sexual or otherwise. Of course, if he’s already with such an emergency patient and another comes in, an Alpha doctor will take the initiative, but only with the Omega’s consent and the presence of at least two Omega nurses. _The fair sex_ is an archaic phrase, but there is an undeniable delicacy to Omegas that Dr. Honda feels is obtuse to overlook. They require a gentling that Alphas—through nature or nurture, no one can be sure—for the most part do not.

So when Feliciano and Lovino Vargas are brought into his office, Lovino’s arm tight around his brother like the younger Omega might come apart at any second, Dr. Honda stands slowly and speaks in an even softer tone than his usual. “Hello, Feliciano. It’s going to be alright. I promise I won’t do anything to hurt you. Do you trust me?”

Feliciano looks first to his brother, then to his doctor. His nod is slight, lips squeezed between his teeth as if he’s afraid the horrible feelings inside him might come out.

Of course, there’s never a shortage of rape kits. That is by design; how could anyone stomach the thought of asking a shaky, tearful rape victim to wait hours, or even days to ship more? Still, it’s sickening to think that this constant supply is necessary; that each of these kits will be used someday, that Fate may already have them labelled by name and date.

Dr. Honda lays out a white sheet on the floor. “You’ll have to take your clothes off.”

Feliciano wrings his hands, without realizing it. “Do I get them back?”

“Are they the clothes you were wearing when it happened?”

A shake of the head, gaze dropped to the floor. Lovino puts in, “We already gave those clothes to the police.” They’d stopped to get them on the way to the hospital, Gilbert’s face twisting with quickly veiled disgust when he picked up the pair of torn underwear in white-gloved hands. Gilbert had offered to call Roma when he dropped the brothers off at the hospital (he’d offered to walk them in, too, but Lovino didn’t want that much more attention drawn to them even if Gilbert wasn’t in uniform) and Lovino had declined. He knows he needs to do this himself—to prove to himself that he can, more than anything else.

So when Dr. Honda asks, “Would it feel less awkward if your brother stepped out for this part?” Lovino quickly says, “I really need to call—Grampa, Feli. He needs to know.”

They all hear him stumble into the name. Lovino hasn’t referred to their adoptive guardian as _Grampa_ since he was a pup, but calling him _the reverend_ in front of the doctor seems needlessly cold. Perhaps that little bit of warmth toward the Alpha Feliciano has never had trouble loving is what has Feliciano saying, “Okay.”

Lovino ducks out, closing the door behind him. While Feliciano removes his clothing, Dr. Honda keeps his gaze fixated on the paperwork he has to fill out, because in his experience the transition between clothed and naked is the most undignified part. Dr. Honda records Feliciano’s age, sex, weight, height, and the date of his last heat. Feliciano mumbles something here, and Dr. Honda has to ask him to repeat himself. “The same as my brother’s,” the Italian Omega says, shivering in the perpetually cold room. “We synced up.”

Dr. Honda doesn’t bother to point out that reproductive synchronization is a myth; that doesn’t mean it’s impossible for two Omegas, especially two of similar age, to have the same heat cycle. “That makes things simpler,” he murmurs, adding that to his own notes. If Lovino goes into heat and Feliciano doesn’t . . . _You can’t cross a bridge until you come to it._

Dr. Honda knows the answers to these questions, but he asks them anyway: _Have you had any surgeries? Have you been subject to therapy? Are you on any medications? Have you been sexually assaulted before?_ And now the part Dr. Honda loathes, because after all this has happened, the victim must be violated again. He asks the question in a clinical, almost robotic voice, because if he seems like just a computer, just the embodiment of this paperwork, it won’t seem so humiliating to admit the terrible truth. “Where did penetration occur?”

Feliciano doesn’t open his mouth or look up. He just moves a trembling hand between his legs, and when Dr. Honda confirms, “Vaginally?” the Italian Omega nods miserably.

Dr. Honda inclines his head. He circles Feliciano slowly, peering closely at his skin. He was chastised for this in med school, but he looks at the body like it’s a paper he’s proofreading or a dish he’s scrubbing. If something is amiss, he must take note and consider how best to fix it. Removing the human element whenever possible is how Dr. Honda has gotten this far without changing professions; not because he’s ashamed to do this, but because seeing such pain in others, even if they are strangers, cuts deep into him. More than once he’s bolted upright in bed in the middle of the night: _I have to help!_ Working with the human body and being a perfectionist just doesn’t work. There’s no black and white; the egdes will always be ragged no matter how much you clip and smooth them.

“Come up on the table, please,” Dr. Honda says, standing straight. “Would you like help?”

“N-No.” Feliciano climbs up onto the examination table, the protective paper rustling beneath him. Dr. Honda can see his chest fluttering, his eyes flicking all over the room. There’s nothing he can do; the only thing that can be done is to just power through it and let the family and a rape counselor help Feliciano through the aftermath.

“I’m going to turn the lights off now.” He once had an Omega start screaming when the room plunged to darkness, so now he times it carefully. Light off, lamp on in the same second. The room is lit by the purple lamp in his hand, which he trails over Feliciano’s skin, hovering just over, never touching.

“Wh . . .” Feliciano clears his throat, but his words come no less uneven. “What’s that for?”

“DNA.” What a blessedly vague initialism to conceal the potentially triggering _saliva and semen_ with. Dr. Honda waves the magic wand over every pertinent inch of Feliciano’s body, then records his findings in silence. Here, Dr. Honda finds himself wishing they could just stay in the aesthetically appealing violet-and-shadow, so they don’t have to go on to the part he truly abhors, the part every worldly victim dreads with such passion they may never report their assault at all. Dr. Honda exhales silently, then sets down the lamp. “I’m turning the lights on now, alright?”

They both squint at the abrupt brightness, and when Feliciano sees the speculum in Dr. Honda’s gloved hand, he closes his eyes, preferring unknowable darkness to the ugly reality.

* * *

Lovino has to call the reverend’s mobile phone—which he’s only recently acquired and still needs frequent assistance with its tiny-buttoned nuances—three times before he gets a response. He thinks the anxiety poking at his stomach has subsided by then, but as soon as the ringing stops, his heart starts to beat faster.

“Sorry, Lovino! I was helping the kids paint a mural, they’re all doing great. I guess this thing is on silence again.”

 _Silent, not silence._  He feels that same sensation you get when you’re walking along a ledge or driving up to a crosswalk. That morbid pull toward danger—but in this case, it’s the opposite. Lovino could just not say anything, could avoid telling him this bad news. But then he’d just have to do it later, and there’d be no point. So he jumps off the ledge and crashes into the poor pedestrians: “Something . . . something horrible has happened.”

Is that the proper thing to say? It sounds cliche. He’s in a soap opera, an after-school special, a car insurance commercial. He wonders if he’s numbed himself permanently by his survival tactic of never getting his hopes up and never caring enough about anything enough to be hurt by misfortune. Why doesn’t he feel like crying? Is he broken?

“What?” Roma’s voice sounds very close, intense. “What’s wrong?”

Lovino turns his back as a nurse walks by, facing a poster about hand sanitizer. “Feliciano was raped last night. He’s being examined right now. We already went to the police.”

Silence.

Then: “Is . . . Is he alright? Are you alright?”

The contrast of Roma’s present response to his last response, so thin, so weak, filled with shocked disbelief . . . Lovino’s heart aches, but it’s still not the feeling he should have. It’s guilt, for being the harbinger of this nightmare that has befallen their family.

“We’re okay,” he says, wondering who stole his voice and replaced it with this, the light whimper of a scared little Omega pup.

“I’m coming,” the reverend says with new determination. He hasn’t ever truly felt the righteous anger of an Alpha protecting those he loves from danger until now. Lovino can’t see it, nor can the troubled youths painting in the hall, but Roma Vargas has his fists clenched so tight his entire body shakes. It is only by the grace of God that he doesn’t bloody his knuckles on the drywall. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Stay there, alright? I’ll be there. Everything will be alright, Lovino.”

And with that, the reassurance of a higher power, the passing of responsibility, the blind certainty Lovino has never been able to wield—he bursts into tears.

* * *

Francis can’t stop his hands from shaking.

Gilbert removes the third round of rejected prints from the scanner. “O-kay,” he says wearily, “Let’s try this again.”

Francis wipes off his fingers on the provided rag, which appears to be more ink than cloth already. The sweat accumulating on his palms doesn’t seem to be much help. It’s all he can do to keep from hyperventilating. Oh, and the nausea from his hangover has made a helpful reappearance; he suspects the headache isn’t far behind, with the anxiety straining at him. And on top of all that, there’s a voice in the back of his mind saying, _What a victim you are. Poor you. Do you know how Feliciano feels?_

No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t know Feliciano at all. He can barely remember the last time he saw the Omega. And yet, here he is. Being incarcerated— _booked_ , Gilbert said, like it’s a fucking holiday inn—for raping him.

“The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can speak to your attorney,” Gilbert says. As if that’s something Francis is looking forward to.

He relinquishes his hand again, and Gilbert efficiently rolls his inked fingertips across the paper. Each little box is filled with dark swirls. Francis tries to trace them, but his eyes blur. Gilbert feeds the sheet to the scanner, and at last it accepts them. They’ll go into a database, Francis knows, and he’ll always be identifiable if he’s found to be a villain again. _Unless I burn to death,_ he thinks, watching Gilbert’s fingers jab at the keyboard to enter in personal information (height, weight, eye color—things he shouldn’t already know, because you shouldn’t have to arrest one of your best friends). _Then it’ll have to be the teeth._

“Straight teeth,” he hears himself say.

Gilbert glances at him, brow furrowed, then looks at the current field he’s filling out: _Distinguishing characteristics._ He watches the little line blink, blink, blink. Francis thinks he sees a hint of smile touch the German Alpha’s lips; then he types _Shoulder-length blond hair. Slim build._ The briefest of pauses. _Straight teeth._

Francis smiles, until Gilbert says tonelessly, “Stand in front of the camera.”

Call him vain.

Call him sinful.

Call him deplorable.

But he’s not getting his mug shot taken without fixing his hair first. He’s paranoid of the ink on his fingers, so it’s with bizarre hand motions that he combs and fluffs his hair—so bizarre, in fact, Gilbert is struck with the realization that it looks for all the world like a cat washing its ears.

“Stop that,” Gilbert says sternly, but they both hear the warble of laughter breaking through. He clears his throat and busies himself with the camera while Francis faces forward, then to the side. He wonders if this photo looks any better than the one on his driver’s license. _Stop that,_ he echoes to himself. Isn’t it irreverent to make light of all this? He’s been conditioned to take law seriously. But this charge is spurious . . . isn’t it?

Gilbert is just staring at him now, so Francis distracts himself from troubling thoughts to ask, “What happens now?”

The German Alpha’s bearing has gone abruptly dour. He’s thinking about what _could_ happen now, and perhaps what _should_ , given the nature of the case. He imagines this is another Alpha accused of rape. In his opinion, there usually isn’t probable cause to strip-search criminals during the booking process, but for this crime . . . well, even if it’s unlikely there’s a hidden weapon on his person, isn’t it karma for a rapist to be violated? Justice, of the old-fashioned, eye-for-an-eye variety. Fitting. Very fitting.

Gilbert looks at Francis, the Alpha who taught him the best method for tying ties, who once stayed up all night talking with him about the meaning of life while Antonio snored on the floor, who can look at Gilbert’s pale skin, strange hair, and freakish eyes and still genuinely think he’s the more desirable one between the two of them.

“Now,” he replies, “we’re going to the hospital. I have a warrant for blood and hair samples.”

Francis blinks, then nods, understanding. He steps toward the door, but stops when Gilbert doesn’t move. “What?”

Gilbert always keeps a pair of strings in his jacket, but that’s not what he pulls out now. When Francis sees them, his heart goes as cold as the steel of the handcuffs Gilbert snaps onto his wrists.

* * *

“You have to let me take this,” Antonio pleads. He’d started out sitting on the comfortable sofa in his boss’s office, but that lasted all of five seconds. He’s already leapt up and paced to and fro a dozen times; now he’s practically lying across the DA’s desk, fingers clasped like a penitent. “Please. I’m begging you, sir.”

Basch Zwingli is unflappable as ever, infamous for being the most objective prosecutor in the state. He takes in the necessary details and determines the most logical course of action. Contrary to popular belief, he does experience emotions and recognizes them clearly in others; these are more details to take into account. Emotions are variables, not constants. They cannot be relied on, nor can they be allowed to affect the doing of one’s job— _especially_ when that job is practising law and upholding justice.

“How many times will it take, Antonio?” he asks, crossing his arms. “I say again. You’re too close to this case. Are you going to get this worked up in a courtroom?”

“No!” Antonio cries.

Basch raises an eyebrow.

“No,” Antonio repeats, quieter. “I promise you, I won’t. I think—will you hear me out? Please?”

“If you get off my desk, yes.”

Antonio straightens up immediately. He takes a breath to compose himself a little, then says, “I don’t think I’m too close to this case. That’s something we tell people who want to represent themselves. Of course they’re too close. Nobody can think without bias when it’s their own life on the line. But I’m representing someone who has accused my best friend”—he can say it without kicking the nearest piece of furniture, which he considers notable—“and no one is as honest with you as your best friend. You could argue that I’ve been betrayed more than anyone else, aside from Feliciano of course. I had the most trust in Francis. I don’t think another lawyer would be as driven or as . . . as pertinacious as I will be, if you let me take this case.”

Basch regards him with narrowed, contemplative eyes.

Antonio realizes he’s holding his breath and shrugs, dropping the tension from his shoulders. “And the Vargases can always request a different prosecutor if they think I won’t do a good job.”

Basch stares at him for a moment that feels longer than any amount of hours Antonio has waited for a jury to reach a decision. Then his boss leans back in his chair and says, “You can have the case. But there will be no hysterics, outbursts, or personal vengeance. You do this case, you do it as a lawyer. Not as Francis Bonnefoy’s betrayed friend. Understood?”

Antonio lights up like a sunrise. “Understood. Thank you, sir.”

Basch nods. “Don’t make me regret it.”

“Absolutely not.”

He hurries back to his office, closes the door behind him, and turns with the natural surety of taking one step after another to the desk across from his own. But there is no one sitting there to congratulate him on getting the case. No one to spitball ideas with. No one at all.

Since Antonio got the news, he has existed with only one purpose: convince Basch to let him take the case. He could never watch one of the other DDAs take this job. The helplessness of it would have driven him insane. Now he’s at the helm, like he wanted . . . and he has to truly think about the case. Every facet of it.

His best friend. Raping a sixteen-year-old Omega. In a ditch, on the side of the road.

He remembers Francis’s throwaway phrase in the deli:  _Imagine if something important happened last night._

All at once, Antonio does what he was not prepared to do in front of his boss. He drops to his knees, and instead of begging to receive, he puts his head in his hands and weeps for the burden of turmoil he wishes he could discard.

* * *

When Arthur walks into the police station, Francis jumps up from where he’d been sitting on the bed in the holding cell. Arthur can’t help but feel a bit of satisfaction to see the prosecutor behind bars. _There,_ he thinks. _There’s the product of the legal system you love so much._ But he keeps himself in check. This is a client, regardless of his background or their rivalry.

He doesn’t expect Francis to be overjoyed to see him, but he’s a bit surprised to see anger clenching the Alpha’s jaw. “You stopped for _tea_?”

Arthur glances at the paper cup warming his hand, then takes his time to enjoy a sip, watching Francis sidelong. A test.

The Alpha wraps a white-knuckled hand around one of the bars. His words are laced with a warning rumble: “I’m not spending the weekend in jail because you wanted refreshments.”

It’s only a second, but Arthur feels it, the instinctual Omega fear where an Alpha would feel anger at being challenged. He tries to hide it, but he knows Francis must see his eyes widen a little, because the aggression falls away from the French Alpha’s body and he opens his mouth to apologize.

Arthur snakes out an arm to grab the front of Francis’s shirt and yanks him forward just shy of slamming into the bars. Arthur leans in close to Francis’s goggle-eyed face. “Let’s set something straight right now. If you ever growl, snarl, or so much as _twitch_ that fucking lip at me, I will drop this case and you’ll be left with some underpaid public defender who’ll accept the first plea bargain he’s offered and you’ll do ten years, at least.” He arches an eyebrow. “And I don’t think I need to tell you what happens to Alphas who look like you in prison.”

Francis makes the intelligent decision of whispering, “I’m sorry.”

Arthur releases him, before that little crack in his voice turns to something like tears. That’s the last thing he wants to deal with right now. Now that Francis understands the rules—just one, really: don’t piss off your attorney—Arthur turns his back to address the desk sergeant. “Is there a private room available, pray tell?”

The uniformed Alpha rolls his eyes as he gets up to open the cell. “The usual one. You know the way.”

“Wonderful.” Arthur doesn’t wait for Francis to be cuffed, just lets the Alpha scurry to catch up with him as he strolls into the little conference room. It’s a disused interrogation room, in truth; a table with chairs and a vain attempt at hominess from the potted plant wilting in the corner. _Typical._ He told that lazy desk sergeant about the plant the last two times he was here. Arthur pours some of his tea around the base of the brittle stems. When he turns around, Francis is staring at him, incredulous.

“That’s the nicest thing I’ve ever seen you do,” he says. “Why do you care about a random plant?”

“Plants mind their own business,” Arthur says pointedly. He sits down, and this time waits until Francis takes the seat across from him to start speaking. “Tell me what has happened to you today. Waking up to now.”

Francis’s brow furrows—clearly, prosecutors don’t need to worry about _their_ clients getting mistreated by police officers—and he recounts waking up hungover, working, getting lunch, being arrested and booked, then waiting for Arthur to arrive. “Feliciano Vargas is the victim,” Francis adds quietly, looking down at his lap.

“Alleged.”

Francis lifts his head, takes in Arthur sitting calmly with his tea. “You don’t think it happened?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. You’re innocent until proven guilty.” He shrugs, sipping his tea. “Do you have an alibi for last night?”

“I . . .” Francis looks down at his lap again. “I don’t know. I can’t remember last night.”

Now it’s Arthur’s turn to stare at him. “Excuse me? Why not?”

The French Alpha still doesn’t look up, face hidden by a curtain of gold waves. “Because I was drunk. I remember being at the pub, and I remember waking up the next morning. Everything in between is . . . I don’t know. Gone.”

 _You’ve got to be fucking kidding me._ “Are you—What are you looking at?”

Francis sits up straight and holds up his hands as far apart as he can with the cuffs, each fingertip black as coal. “ _This._ This is what everyone will see. They’ll all think I did it, now that I’ve been accused.” His hands drop to the tabletop and his face darkens. “And I can’t even remember if they’re right or wrong.”

Arthur doesn’t speak, or even breathe, for a long moment. Just his fucking luck. He was bluffing when he threatened to drop the case; he’s never dropped a case and he’s certainly not starting now, while the partnership committee is gathering. It’s at times like these that he wonders if his atheism is misplaced; is there an all-seeing deity up there, doubled over with laughter? Punishing him for manipulating the memory of victims by giving him a client with alcohol-induced amnesia?

Right then and there, Arthur knows: _This is going to do my head in by the end._

His chest is starting to hurt, so he straightens his spine, breathes in— _one, two, three, four, five_ —and out again— _one, two, three, four, five._ One of the few things his doctor advised that he actually does (and only in moderation, because it’s supposed to be done six times per session). It relieves the discomfort in his chest, whatever.

Francis is watching him now. Arthur wants to look away, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “So let me see if I have this right. You got sloshed last night and walked home from the pub. That took, what, fifteen minutes? But you were—see above—sloshed, so we’ll call it twenty. And somewhere between Point A and Point B, you met Feliciano Vargas. And you don’t remember any of it. Yes?”

The French Alpha nods. He looks almost ill. “That sounds about right.”

Arthur gets up, walks over to the plant, and gives it the rest of his tea. As he does, he asks, “Why did you want me?”

His voice stays emotionless, as he’d hoped. He wasn’t sure he’d manage it, if he had to look at those damned blue eyes at the same time.

“Because you just showed me that you can get a rapist acquitted.”

Arthur watches the tea puddle slowly soak into the soil. “Lightning doesn’t strike twice.”

This was, in a way, another test. Francis doesn’t come close to growling, but there is a note of contempt creeping into his voice. “Stranger things have happened.”

Arthur turns around. “Just say it.”

Now he looks confused. “What?”

If Arthur hears one more person claim Alphas are more direct than Omegas, he’s going to scream. “Listen. I don’t like my time being wasted. It gives me palpitations and I get very crabby. So just tell me you hate me for what I did to Matthew, and we’ll be done with it. You’re obviously thinking about it.”

The French Alpha’s brow furrows with such genuine bewilderment that a tiny voice in Arthur’s head says, very clearly, _oh no._ “I wasn’t thinking about Matthew, actually,” he replies. “I do hate you for it, though. But I don’t, at the same time. You were doing your job. You just could have been more . . . personable about it, that’s all.”

This is far from the raging argument Arthur expected. He’s caught off-guard. The spiteful defensiveness has been scooped out of him, and in its place is . . . vulnerability. _Fuck._ “Well,” he says, with barely a fraction of the vitriol he’d whipped up on the drive to town, “just keep in mind. Matthew is better off the way things turned out. A few years and a fine wouldn’t have made his pain go away, and besides—once Braginski got out, who knows what kind of grudge he might hold? You’ve seen his record. And _you_ would’ve been the prosecutor who put him away, so he’d probably go after you, as well. So, really, this is the best-case scenario for everyone.”

Slowly, Francis gets to his feet and pushes in his chair. Then he walks round the table and pushes Arthur’s in, too. Then, looking more self-assured than he has since he was first taken into custody, he says, “Don’t ask me for forgiveness, Arthur. You won’t get it.”

Arthur stares at him. Of course. Of _course,_ the one time he lets himself feel vulnerable, a blade is shoved right into the weak spot. What the fuck is happening here? Francis stands on solid ground, and Arthur feels ice fracturing beneath him. How the bloody hell is he supposed to establish that boundary? Push Francis down like a pup on the playground? Run bawling back to Mikkel? _My client hurt my feelings!_

“Likewise,” he snaps, the only vaguely clever thing he can think of to say. “Don’t say a single world during the interrogation. You’ve given me fuck-all to work with. Your beloved police officers don’t deserve any better.” The paper cup is crushed in his hand. He leaves it on the table for the next unfortunate attorney to deal with. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Francis has been to plenty of arraignments, but he’s never gone to one in the back of a sheriff’s van. He huddles on the bench seat and tries not to think about what might have been in here in the past. The vans get hosed down, he knows; nobody cares enough to actually scrub them, just like solitary cells. The thought clenches his stomach, and he bows his head, focusing on breathing instead. This process seemed so different, watching it from the other side. It seemed satisfying. _Criminals don’t deserve luxury._ What do the wrongly accused deserve, then?

They escort him into the sheriff’s department, which is a nest of narrow halls hidden away beneath the courthouse like mole tunnels. Arthur is waiting for him, looking like he just sucked on a lemon. Neither of them say a word as they walk side-by-side into the courtroom. At the end of the aisle, Francis turns right, muscle memory.

Antonio is sitting in the prosecutor’s seat.

Francis’s mouth falls open, but before he can overcome his speechlessness he’s whirling around from the sharp yank to his arm. “Are you trying to get kicked out of here?” Arthur hisses to him, glancing at the bailiff who had stepped away from the wall, ready to tackle Francis if he made any movement toward Antonio. “Sit down and shut up,” Arthur mutters through his teeth.

Francis obeys, numb. Antonio hasn’t glanced up from the papers he’s reading. Francis wonders what they are. Statements, probably. New fear quivers in Francis’s chest. Arthur has bettered Francis by majority, but it’s much closer to fifty-fifty between Arthur and Antonio. _What if we lose?_ But how can he care about that, when he still doesn’t know the answer to the question that will keep up him tonight: _What if I did it?_

The judge comes in. Arthur, Francis, and Antonio rise. Complainant don’t come to arraignments, which Francis has always been and continues to be grateful for. He doesn’t think he could face Feliciano Vargas without crying out to him: _Why are you doing this to me? What did I do to you? I’m so sorry._

The judge wastes no time greeting them. He reads the case number and announces Francis’s crime; the weight of the word _felonious_ dripping from the judge’s lips has Francis cringing. He’s so used to staying quiet during this part, Arthur has to elbow him in the side to remind him to lift his head and acknowledge the judge is speaking to him.

“Do you understand the charges against you?”

Francis has to clear his throat to get the words out. _I understand what, but not how._ But that’s not what they want to hear. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“How do you plead?”

Francis starts to stand up, cuffs jangling, but freezes when he feels a hand press firmly down on his thigh. Arthur doesn’t look at him, but Francis remembers his order: _Sit down and shut up._ Arthur rises without looking at his client. “I’d like to ask the court to enter a not-guilty plea on the defendant’s behalf.”

“Alright.” The judge folds his hands, gaze shifting to the prosecution table. “Will we be setting bail today?”

Antonio gets smoothly to his feet. Francis marvels at how calm he is. He’s using the voice that he once practised in front of Francis in his pajamas in their dorm room. _Bail is simply unacceptable, Your Honor, on the grounds of blah blah, and also blah._ (They never made it through a practise trial without corpsing.) “This is a very close-knit community. Everyone knows the victim, and everyone knows the perpetrator. Everyone, particularly the children and Omegas of this town, will feel much more secure if they know Mr. Bonnefoy is behind bars. The state requests that bail be denied.”

The judge inclines his head slightly—Francis hopes that’s not a subtle sign of agreement—before turning back to Arthur and Francis. “And what does the defense say?”

Compared to Antonio, Arthur seems a little ragged, more fired-up. Francis probably has himself to blame for that, at least in part. He crosses all the fingers he can. _I don’t care how much it is, just please, God, let me make bail._

“This is the first time my client has ever been accused of this crime, or indeed of any crime at all. That gives no indication of this becoming a repeat offense. He is a trusted member of this tight-knit community”—Francis sees Antonio’s eyes narrow when his words are repeated with a faint sneer—“and has endeavored to protect the more vulnerable members of it for almost a decade. If a prosecutor is locked up, that may cause more fear than letting him walk the streets. Citizens may wonder if other members of law enforcement are corrupt. Better to let the court decide who is and isn’t guilty.” By the end of his speech, Arthur has regained the confident, eloquent energy that Francis previously assumed was easy for him to maintain. “The defense requests bail be set at twenty thousand.”

Francis has to bite his cheeks to keep from protesting. Arthur requested twenty-five thousand for Ivan Braginski—which was granted and paid by what Francis suspects is some sort of illegally obtained tender—and Francis, as stated, has no criminal record. But, then again, he’s never been very good at attributing monetary value to heinous acts. Perhaps that amount is quite reasonable.

Antonio doesn’t think so. “I don’t think an accused rapist walking the streets will make anyone feel safer, Judge. If nothing else, it endangers the defendant. No Alpha wants someone like that around their loved ones.”

Is that worry for Francis? Or just an argument to help his case?

The judge holds up his hands before Arthur can respond. “Alright, counsellor. Because the defendant is a deputy to our fine district attorney, and because he has never been accused of a crime before, I’ll grant bail at twenty thousand dollars—with conditions.”

Francis holds his breath.

“Mr. Bonnefoy is not to leave this state, for any reason.” _Alright, that won’t be an issue._ “He is not to have any contact with Feliciano Vargas or his family.” _That’s a mercy, not a penalty._ “And he shall be under supervision at all times.”

Francis blinks, looking from Arthur to Antonio. Both lawyers have no more idea what that might entail than he does. Arthur is the one to ask: “Under the supervision of whom, Your Honor?”

The judge strokes his chin. “A police officer would be ideal, but extreme. A family member would suffice. Does the defendant have family who can be summoned?”

Arthur cuts a glance to Francis, who shakes his head. “No, Your Honor.”

“I see. Well, someone can be assigned, but until then Mr. Bonnefoy will have to return to custody—”

“I’ll do it.”

Everyone in the room turns to look at Arthur. Francis stares up at him, astonished. The Omega stares straight ahead, jaw clamped shut like he’s trying to keep other self-sacrifices from popping out. _Why is he doing this?_

“Excuse me?” the judge asks, unaccustomed to being interrupted.

“I’ll supervise the defendant. I take total legal responsibility for him.” The words come out of him like pulled teeth, and Francis can see his knuckles are white where they squeeze the edge of the table. He’s shocked most of all by how tempted he is to put an arm around Arthur, pull the Omega to him, nuzzle into the jaw that looks so much softer up close. But he can’t do that. Arthur would probably ram a knee between his legs, for one thing.

His hands are cuffed, for another.

Antonio shakes his head. “That is _not_ a good idea. Your Honor, forgive me for being presumptuous, but I don’t think you had an Omega in mind when you suggested supervision. Mr. Kirkland is putting himself at risk by staying with a rapist.”

“Alleged,” Arthur snaps, “thank you _very_ much. You’d better go shut down the town swimming pool, Mr. Carriedo. Someone _might_ drown in it, you know.”

Antonio’s eyes narrow. “There is a point where better safe than sorry becomes relevant. You don’t see many people accused of murder walking the streets. Unless they’re your clients.”

Arthur arches an eyebrow. “Sorry, what was that? It sounded like _contempt of court_ to me.”

Francis jumps when the gavel is banged. The judge glares between the standing lawyers. “Counselors, if you can’t get through a simple bail hearing, I’m sure more professional individuals can be found to replace you.”

That shuts them up.

“I have no problem with the proposed arrangement,” the judge says, “if Mr. Kirkland is willing.”

“I am, Your Honor.” Arthur turns a gaze of burning coals on Antonio. “My client is innocent until proven guilty, after all.”

Francis has to admit, it’s nicer to be on this side of that bitter smirk. He pities the inexpressible frustration burning behind Antonio’s prosecutor veneer.

“Well, then.” The judge nods to them all with finality, as if this is the end rather than just the beginning. “That’s that.”

* * *

There’s a computer in the court cashier’s office put there specifically for the advent of online bail payment. “We’re not all behind the times,” says the cashier, an Alpha who looks older than the courthouse. “Even if we are in a small town!”

Arthur smiles blandly at him as the ancient computer wheezes, straining to load a search engine. “Yes,” he says. “This place is truly the epicenter of technological advancement.”

This office reeks of old—the curtains, the books, the cashier doing a crossword puzzle with a stub of a pencil with a lead so dull it squeaks when it touches the paper. Arthur wants to tear this whole room apart, put in a new computer with a database for all those books, a steady supply of fountain pens, and blond wood floor to match the young blond Alpha he’d replace that wrinkled husk with.

Antonio. Of all people, that’s who he has to walk into court and see. _Am I in a fucking nightmare right now?_

Except, maybe, it’s fine. He’s beaten Antonio before. The Spanish Alpha’s emotional investment in this case might be a good thing. If he misses details because he’s distraught, that’s good for Arthur. _But if he hunts down every weapon he can use against me, I’m fucked. Because the frog had to have one too many._ He’s starting to understand why his dam always called it the demon drink. He’s fairly certain if the devil saw his soul right now, he’d turn tail and run. What’s the old saying? _Hell hath no fury like an Omega scorned._ Yeah, well, hell ain’t seen nothing yet.

“Arthur?”

He turns. Francis is watching him, with—yes, _concern_ on his face. The way he spoke, the careful compassion in it, makes Arthur feel like he’s being lured into the abyss. Kindness like that always comes before he does something he’ll regret later.

“Don’t say that,” he snaps.

Francis blinks. “Your name?”

God, he misses cigarettes. “What do you want?”

Francis rubs his wrists where the cuffs have left his skin red. “I’m just wondering how much you, uh . . .”

Money on the mind, then. Arthur has twenty grand worth of incentive to get Francis acquitted now; bail isn’t refunded if the defendant is convicted, not that it really matters since the only thing to buy in prison is junk food. Arthur knows what clients mean when they trail off like that because so many of them do it, especially first-timers. Nobody ever considers what the cost of normalcy is. Arthur’s business model is, essentially, _You pay me, and I’ll do my best to unfuck your life._

“My retainer is five thousand,” he replies, adjusting his cuffs.

“What does that cover?”

Arthur smirks a little. Quaint, for a client to know the right questions to ask. “Twenty hours.”

Francis stares at him. “You charge two hundred and fifty dollars an hour?”

But he says it like there might be an _only_ in there somewhere. Arthur wants to know, immediately, what this French twat in his ugly Italian-cut suit makes each year, but he just asks icily, “Will my fee put you into insolvency, Mr. Bonnefoy?”

Francis shakes his head, gaze drifting to the middle distance. That look—calculating, cutting mental corners, pinching, fretting—makes Arthur wonder if the implied _only_ might have been a compliment. Francis has the same smothering heap of student debt any lawyer has (apart from the ones who’ll go to work in Daddy’s firm, of course) and he, for some reason, insists on taking small cases, which Arthur knows because it’s good practise to know the business of your enemies. Very insightful.

“You don’t have to pay it all upfront,” Arthur finds himself saying.

Francis looks up so suddenly a wave of hair falls over his eye. “What?”

Arthur turns away to fill a paper cup with water from a cooler in the corner. Goddamned hair. Weren’t Alphas meant to have coarse hair compared to Omegas? Francis has the hair of a bloody fertility god. “You heard me,” Arthur mutters, wishing this water had caffeine in it.

There’s a long pause filled with clicking and typing, so Arthur assumes they’ve left the topic behind. But then Francis stands up from the computer and steps closer to Arthur, blue eyes searching his face. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Arthur raises both eyebrows. “Do you want me to be mean to you?”

“No—”

“Because I can be mean to you.”

“No, no, no.” Francis shakes his head. “That’s alright. I mean, why did you agree to supervise me? You didn’t have to do that.”

Not to give a prosecutor credit, but that is a very good question. Arthur shrugs. “It simplified things. It kept you out of jail, didn’t it? Your weekend won’t be spent behind bars. Spare some bloody gratitude.”

A mistake. Francis takes his free hand, and for a split second Arthur thinks he’s going to lift it to his mouth and kiss it. _Enchenté._ No, that’s what the dashing Alpha says when he first meets the Omega in films. Not just any old time. Not after a bail hearing. _Not in my life._

Francis gives his hand a little squeeze, and a small but genuine smile pulls one side of his lips. “Thank you.”

Arthur lets the touch linger just long enough to appreciate the fact that his hand is not dwarfed by Francis’s like it is by most Alpha’s. Then he pulls away and says, “If you think I’m moving in with you and the bullfighter, you’re wrong in two languages. Let’s go fetch whatever you can’t live without.” He brightens. “Oh, speaking of that, we’ll have to get groceries as well.”

Francis keeps pace with him out to the parking lot, amused. “You seem oddly excited about getting groceries.”

Arthur stops behind his car. “What Omega wouldn’t be thrilled to go shopping with an Alpha for the first time? I’m enraptured with domestic bliss.” He lets his feigned doe eyes melt into a smirk. “Now I’ll be able to reach things on the top shelves.”

Francis raises a hand, sliding it through the air from the top of Arthur’s head over to his own brow. “I think our reaching range is about the same.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “I said _I’ll_ be able to reach. If I see something I want, I’ll climb on your back.” He slips into the driver’s seat and glances back at Francis. “Get in the car before I run you over.”

He hears Francis mumble something like _Dieu, aide-moi_ before his door slams home.

* * *

_Patience is a virtue._ It might be the most important virtue a detective, especially an SVU detective, can wield. Gilbert has become very, very skilled at waiting. He’s waiting now, sitting quietly while Feliciano weeps in Roma’s arms. Lovino stands by one of the windows in the cozy living room, looking out pensively at the autumn afternoon. Gilbert plans on speaking to all of the Vargases separately, but there’ll be time for that later. Feliciano gave him the five W’s at the station; now he’s here with Antonio, who is struggling with the concept of virtuous patience.

“We just need to know where you all were when it happened,” Antonio tells them, knee bouncing slightly. “Any unaccounted-for time doesn’t look good, so please be as specific as you can.”

Gilbert is always taken aback to hear Antonio enter Prosecutor Mode, all his natural levity replaced with an almost workaholic drive. The Spanish Alpha does have a certain passion about him that he shares with Francis; Gilbert feels plain, almost bland compared to his friends. His feelings seem so awkward and clumsy compared to theirs.

But now . . . now comparing himself to Francis just makes him want to close his eyes and not open them until someone comes along and tells him how to get on with his life. Antonio seems to be taking it better, but Gilbert hasn’t had a chance to really talk to him about it. He wonders what will happen when Antonio goes home without his flatmate tonight. _Maybe I should offer to stay with him._

“I was here. I got home before dinnertime. I never left all night.” Roma rubs his hand up and down Feliciano’s arm; the Omega breathes in time with the touch, like he’s a puppet with pulled strings. No, that image is too dark. Gilbert does away with it. “I must have nodded off after we ate, I can’t read things in the evening anymore without falling asleep. I guess . . . seven-thirty? I fell asleep around then and didn’t wake up again until almost ten. The pups were both asleep by then.”

Gilbert glances at Lovino, who bristles at the juvenile label but doesn’t protest.

Antonio nods, writing that down on a legal pad. “When did you leave the house, Feli?”

Feliciano doesn’t lift his head from Roma’s shoulder. He’s curled up on the sofa, legs tucked beneath him, a soft blanket wrapped around him. Gilbert has seen this in so many Omegas after the rape kit exam, he now keeps a shock blanket in his office. He’s never seen the exam—obviously, Alphas aren’t allowed in the room during one—but he knows what happens, and he’d want to curl up in a ball afterward, too.

“I guess . . . Eight o’clock.” Feliciano’s gaze avoids the detective and the prosecutor. “Lovi and Grampa were both asleep and I was making lunch for the next day, and I saw we didn’t have enough bread for sandwiches, s-so I went to get some . . .” He shrinks into the blanket, like a turtle about to disappear into its shell. “I didn’t want to wake anybody up.”

Gilbert watches Antonio write that down. His penmanship isn’t the neatest normally, but the Spanish Alpha is pressing the pen into the paper so hard Gilbert knows the next dozen sheets in that legal pad will be imprinted with Feliciano’s words, scored with the testimony.

“And when did you get back?” Antonio asks, with an encouraging smile that seems a little too tight around the edges.

“I didn’t look at the clock, I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay,” Antonio says immediately, green eyes soft as a clover patch. “You don’t have to remember exactly, don’t worry. Just an estimate of the hour would be good.”

“It wasn’t any later than eight-forty,” Lovino says, turning to face them. “He woke me up when he got home. He was crying.”

Roma shakes his head, but he’s barely stern, just regretful. “You should have woken me, cucciolo.”

Feliciano buries his face in Roma’s shirt and whimpers an apology, which just has Roma holding him closer, protective, murmuring reassurance in Italian. Lovino remains apart, watching them raptly as if absorbing the affection by photosynthesis. Gilbert hopes Lovino won’t try to be the strong one through this whole affair; he doubts anyone, Omega or not, could make it through something as emotionally trying as this without support. He finds himself wishing he knew Lovino well enough to offer a hug, but he wishes that same thing for every hurt Omega he meets. _Even the redcoat,_ he admits, remembering coming across Arthur in the parking lot after he lost a case. The Omega was furiously fumbling in his jacket pocket for a little white case; when he noticed Gilbert’s attention, he demanded, _What are you bloody gawking at?_ Gilbert just assumed it was an Omega thing—some unspecific bother related to the mystical reproductive system—and went on his way.

“We were hoping you could point out to us where it happened,” Gilbert says, once Feliciano has been soothed. “But it doesn’t have to be today. You probably want to rest.”

“No.” To everyone’s surprise, Feliciano sits up and speaks louder than a whimper. “I want to go. To get it over with.”

Gilbert and Antonio stand in unison, and Antonio says, “Great. We can go right now, if you’re ready.”

“I just . . . need to . . .” He trails off into mumbling as he rises from the sofa. It must mean something to Lovino, because the Omegas converge and go upstairs arm-in-arm. _An Omega thing,_ Gilbert thinks. Feliciano has no heat-scent about him, but perhaps it’s unrelated to that. Gilbert has gone back and forth on whether or not he’s glad Feliciano wasn’t in heat during the assault. It would make the case much more complicated—congress has been trying to write laws governing consent during heat for decades—but it would also give Francis a bit of leeway. Any Alpha who went to school was taught from the start the importance of self-control, what to do if a nearby Omega goes into heat, all of that. Francis has never been impulsive or aggressive in the time Gilbert has known him, but drunk . . . it wouldn’t be an excuse, but it would at least make this whole thing a tad more understandable. As it is, there’s no redemption.

Roma Vargas watches his adopted children until they’ve left his line of sight. Then he turns to Gilbert and Antonio. Both have known him as long as they’ve been in this little town. He’s everyone’s grandfather, volunteers with troubled youth, provides lively church services every day even when it’s only retired, widowed Omegas who turn up on weekdays. Cheerful and wise without being condescending, no one in the town limits can find fault in him.

And now he’s looking at two Alphas half his age with such fire in his eyes that both of them think perhaps he was not always so holy. “Are you going to lock him up?”

Antonio and Gilbert exchange a glance, but Gilbert leaves the responding to Antonio because no matter what evidence Gilbert finds, it’s up to the lawyers now. “If he’s convicted, I’ll make sure he’s put away for at least a decade,” the Spanish Alpha says. “For the time being, he isn’t allowed any contact with you or your family. Feliciano and Lovino are safe.”

 _Don’t make promises you can’t keep._ Gilbert doesn’t want to be the pessimist, but that’s how it often shakes out. Detectives work with facts; attorneys work with arguments _about_ facts. The fact of the matter is that the maximum sentence for Francis is twenty years, and he doubts Roma Vargas will have stopped hating him by then. He also doubts Feliciano will have fully regained trust of Alphas by then, and that just makes him think of Matthew.

His most selfish thought of the day: _I wish Matthew was still my number-one priority._

Maybe he’ll ask the reverend to absolve him.

Feliciano and Lovino come back downstairs, Feliciano bundled in a robin egg blue, woolly sweater that Matthew would look adorable in. _Alright. Focus._ He glances at Feliciano. “Are you alright to ride with me?”

The Omega nods, then looks worried. “Lovi and Grampa aren’t coming?”

“Of course they are,” Antonio soothes. “They can follow us and give you a ride home after you show us the crime scene.”

Gilbert expects Feliciano to make a nest in the backseat, but instead he goes straight for the passenger seat. “Feel free to adjust the—” He gestures to the dials on the dashboard. Rather than blast them with heat like Antonio always does, Feliciano turns the heat _off_ and the cold on. When Gilbert glances at the Omega, he sees his cheeks are flushed and eyes bright with discomfort. _Preheat?_ He doesn’t want to just sniff at him . . . but as they drive, he doesn’t smell any of the temptingly sweet musk that would normally come from an Omega going into preheat. Didn’t his dam used to complain about hot flashes? But don’t those only come after menopause?

He’ll have to ask Matthew, the next time he sees him.

* * *

It’s just the side of the road. Antonio doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it’s just the same old stretch of road he’s walked along countless times to get from the pub or the general store to the flat. Feliciano couldn’t point out the exact spot, since it happened in the dark and no one expects him to remember it to the exact detail. The officers Gilbert has enlisted mark off the area with gaudy caution tape, and Antonio hates how detached he feels from it. It’s like watching the decorating of a movie set. _It happened here,_ he tells himself, over and over. _Last night._

But a voice that sounds awfully British keeps adding, _Allegedly._

He can’t decide if he should be looking at this as a defender of the victim or a friend of the _(alleged!)_ perpetrator. His boss has ordered him to see it only as a prosecutor, but the heart cannot be restrained to such objectivity. His brain knows no one can ever be totally trusted; dire circumstances can make people do things they would never normally do. But his heart knows Francis would never do something like this. There isn’t a violent bone in his body. _But isn’t that how it always goes?_ The murderer is the one who never raises his voice and always releases spiders outside rather than squish them. The rapist is the one who always smiles and tells Omegas how beautiful they are, but never receives proportionate interest. And he didn’t understand why Antonio wanted someone like Lovino, someone feisty, an Omega who would put up a fight . . .

“Hey.” Antonio opens eyes he hadn’t realized he’d closed to see Gilbert sidling up to him, hands in his pockets. Antonio doesn’t like seeing those broad shoulders so hunched, even if it is just against the cold (it isn’t). The German Alpha glances over at the officers currently combing the area. “They’re not going to find anything.”

Antonio turns to make sure the Vargases are gone; he’s paranoid any doubt of conviction will reach Roma through some sixth sense and have the reverend come roaring back to, quite literally, put the fear of God into them both. “How do you know?”

“We usually don’t.” He shrugs. “He gave me consent to search the office and his bedroom. So I doubt there’ll be anything there, either.”

Antonio looks at him, voice dipping low. “Are you saying you don’t think he did it?”

“No.” Gilbert sighs a thin cloud. “I’m not saying anything until I have all the evidence.”

But he avoids Antonio’s gaze and joins the officers without saying anything else, and Antonio knows just as well as a detective that silences say just as much as words.


	4. Pathetic Fallacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey are these chapter titles getting pretentious yet

Standing in the shared office of Antonio and Francis with neither of those Alphas present is like walking into a still-life painting. Gilbert pivots, from Antonio’s outwardly neat side to Francis’s controlled chaos. _There’s a method to the madness,_ the French Alpha insisted when Gilbert accosted the state of his desk. _Out of sight, out of mind works too well for me. I forget about things. So I keep them where I can see them. And it’s clockwise, see? Priority items here, then around the desk to the least important ones. And my sticky notes are color-coded . . ._ Gilbert had shaken his head and glanced over at Antonio, straddling his chair backward and observing them with amusement. _How do you miraculously remember things, when it’s all put away?_ The Spanish Alpha laughed. _Nagging guilt, mostly. The same reason I did my homework last-minute in high school._ Francis smiled. _And law school. We took turns nagging. Not that you ever stopped. Lava los platos!_

Gilbert snaps himself out of the memory by snapping gloves onto his hands. Time to work.

As Gilbert looks through the drawers of Francis’s desk, scanning each paper and folder, he thinks back to the early days of their friendship, when he couldn’t look at Francis and Antonio without a sense of relief, gratitude, good luck. He grew up here in this little town, so he has a hundred acquaintances, a hundred people he can nod to at the gas station or discuss the weather with in the grocery store. Most of the Alphas he hung out with in high school have moved away, which Gilbert had every intention of doing too, but he’d barely started looking for a place in the city when his dam got sick. He can still see Dr. Honda’s eyes, so dark and empty: _There was a chance the treatment wouldn’t work, and I’m afraid it didn’t. There’s nothing we can do. I’m sorry._ Gilbert couldn’t even be surprised when his sire passed only a few months afterward. His parents had been together for fifty years. How could one ever hope to go on without the other?

Now he’s back living in the house he grew up in, because . . . well, he has reasons to stay.

The desk gives no evidence, as Gilbert suspected. The wastepaper basket is no more interesting. He picks up Francis’s coat, hanging on the back of his chair, still waiting where he left it before the lunch break at the deli. The outer material is smooth, waterproof; Gilbert highly doubts any victim DNA would be found on it. Still, he’ll take it and have it tested. No time is a good time to be accused of negligence, but when you’re investigating one of your best friends, that just looks sketchy. Gilbert checks the outer pockets—finding only an empty wrapper of that godawful cinnamon gum Antonio chews—then the inner pockets. Nothing in the right. Gilbert goes still when his gloved fingers brush something in the left. He doesn’t want to, but he withdraws his hand.

A scrap of pale fabric, dotted with little pink flowers. Soft, stretchy.

Gilbert carefully places it into an evidence envelope and labels it with the date, his initials, the case number. Then he writes _Portion torn from victim’s underwear, found in Francis Bonnefoy’s coat._

* * *

“Are you going to push the trolley?”

It takes Francis an embarrasingly long moment to recall what a trolley is in this instance—not a tram, but a cart—because he’s still disconcerted by the state of his living spaces. His bedroom had been torn apart, for no reason at all because he knows for a fact there’s nothing incriminating in there. He’d gathered the least wrinkled of the strewn clothes into a duffel bag and realized his winter coat was still in his office. Once Arthur had gone into the DA building to make sure the coast was clear of Vargases, Francis had slipped into his office.  His desk had been left in even worse disarray than usual, and his coat was nowhere to be found. “The detective will have taken it,” Arthur said from the doorway, arms crossed impatiently. “Just put a jumper on, it’s not frigid.”

Now they’re in the town grocery store, moving out of the way of an elderly Omega who gives Francis a foul look as he shuffles past. Francis knows that Omega by face but not by name; they’ve always exchanged smiles or friendly greetings, just because neither can think of a reason not to. _Well, now there’s a reason._

Arthur grabs one of the smaller carts and pushes it into the store. “Never mind. You’re useless.”

Francis follows after him, but the dismissive tone of that last bit keeps him from apologizing. Try as he might to focus on what’s happening in front of him, his thoughts still go back to his office, the cold betrayal he’d felt at the thought of Gilbert rifling through all his things with those gloved, professional hands. When he’d given him consent to search, he hadn’t considered that Gilbert would treat it like any other job. Why should a police officer fold a potential criminal’s clothes? Why would a detective care about leaving a mess behind? _Because he’s your friend,_ Francis thinks. He doesn’t want to think the words _Not anymore_ but they break and enter, leaving the inside of his head in even more of a mess than his bedroom.

Sharp sounds interrupt his mournful reverie. Arthur is snapping his fingers right next to Francis’s ear. Francis winces, and Arthur lowers his hand, leaning close to him. Francis expects another threatening rant, but instead Arthur’s voice is comparatively light. “You’re letting yourself get too upset about all this. It’s just routine procedure. Detectives take things. Doesn’t mean they’ll get anything off them.”

Francis ducks his head—only to have soft, cold fingers flick under his chin. He looks up to see Arthur watching him beneath a brow heavy with disapproval. “Head up, shoulders back. Walk like you have a spine. People will think you’re guilty if you act like you are.”

Francis tries to puff out his chest, but it feels hollow. “What if I am, though?”

Arthur doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s for the judge and jury to decide.” He turns to observe shelves of bread. “And even if you did do it, you were drunk off your arse, anyway. I don’t know why you’re acting like you actively chose to do it. Plenty of Alphas have gotten off pleading insanity, mental disassociation, and whatnot. Of course, we’d have to change the plea to guilty, if we tried that.”

“No,” Francis says tightly, before he can ask.

“Mm, that’s what I thought. Still, if you weren’t in control of yourself, there’s not a whole lot of point feeling bad about it.”

Francis stares at him. “Is it really that easy for you to shrug off responsibility?”

Arthur shrugs, without thinking. Then, when the wording Francis used clicks, his lip curls in amusement. “Apparently so. Would you charge an Omega with public indecency if he went into heat and spread for his waiter in a restaurant?”

“Well, no. There are allowances—”

“For Omegas. None for Alphas, though.”

Francis really doesn’t want to get into anti-equalist rhetoric. “Because Alphas aren’t at a disadvantage. Omegas are.” He reaches past Arthur to grab a loaf of raisin bread and drops it into the cart. “This is the best kind.”

Arthur looks down at it. “Of course you had to pick the most froufrou bread in this store.”

“You don’t even know what that word means if you’re using it to describe bread.”

“There is nothing not froufrou about bread with swirls of cinnamon and fucking grapes in it.”

Francis cringes a little, craning his neck to glance around. “Do you always swear so much in public?”

“Oh, excuse _me._ I wouldn’t want to offend.” Arthur rolls his eyes, veering the cart to the right. This is the opposite way Francis goes when he shops—aren’t you supposed to go to the frozen section last, so your things stay cold?—but he follows without trivial protest. “And no expensive things. We don’t all work for the state.”

Now it’s Francis’s turn to roll his eyes, but they’re too busy bulging in horror as Arthur dumps five boxes of frozen TV dinners into the cart. “ _That’s_ what you eat? And you’re that thin? Do you ever actually cook?”

Arthur scowls. “I don’t eat. I keep myself from starving to death when absolutely necessary. And I don’t have time to cook. I hate doing it, anyway. Cooking and eating.”

Francis covers his ears. “I don’t know what to do about the things you’re saying.”

“Get your bloody hands off your head, first of all—”

“How can you not like eating?” Francis snatches up one of the boxes. “I’ll tell you how, just like this. Ingredients. _Polysorbate? Benzoate? Pyrophosphate?_ Mmm, sounds delicious.”

Arthur smacks the box out of his hands; it drops back into the cart with a loud enough crash that a nearby Omega jumps and the Alpha beside him glances over in annoyance, slipping a protective arm around his mate. Francis gives an apologetic smile, but the Alpha just turns his back on them.

“It’s none of your business what I eat,” Arthur says, “so keep your nose out of it.”

“Fine.” Francis nudges him aside to take control of the cart. “Now let me show you what real food looks like.”

They go all the way to the other side of the store, where the produce section waits. Francis holds up a little tree of broccoli. “This is what’s known as a vegetable.”

Arthur watches him put several bags of green things into the cart. “There are vegetables in ready meals. Corn. Mashed potato.”

“Processed mush full of salt and fat is not a vegetable.”

That was rather snappish, and Francis is about to say something to lighten it when Arthur shoves his hands into his pockets and says, “Whatever. You wouldn’t be so fussy if you grew up where I did. Picky eaters got the piss beaten out of them.”

Francis searches him for any veiled pain or regret, but the English Omega just regards a pyramid of apples with a slight sneer. So Francis asks, “Do you have a big family?”

“No. I have no family.” Arthur turns on his heel, wandering off without another word. The store is small enough that he doesn’t really have anywhere to go; it’s pretty silly to be in store _with_ someone and have twenty feet between each other. But Francis just lets him go, because like he said. _It’s none of your business._

Arthur turns up again five minutes later, when Francis is considering which color bubble bath he prefers more. “Do you have any of this?”

The English Omega raises both eyebrows, incredulous. “No. I have showers, like an adult.”

Francis puts the blue bottle into the cart, and Arthur says, “Ugh. _Really_? What’s the difference between five minutes in the shower and five in the tub? I’ll tell you, five minutes in the tub only fills the bloody thing.”

“I shower in the morning and bathe in the evening. Only sometimes, not every night. It’s relaxing.” Francis almost laughs at the look on Arthur’s face, like taking a bath is original sin. “What, how do you relax, then?”

“By adding the price of all this guff to your fees.”

When they’re loading things onto the black belt of the cashier counter, Francis hears a pup giggling somewhere behind him. Then he feels something knock into his leg, and he turns to see a little Omega pup staring up at him, having grabbed a chocolate egg from the stand beside the checkout. Francis smiles, surprised. “Oh! Hello.”

The pup smiles too, holds up his egg. “These have toys inside.”

“Do they? I’ve never had one. Are they good?”

The pup nods vigorously, ginger hair falling in his eyes. “At Easter I—”

Abruptly, he’s yanked back, and an Omega who must be his dam is saying sternly, “What have I told you? We don’t go near strange Alphas.”

Francis watches them, waiting for the dam to at least glance at him, give him the benefit of the doubt, but they walk out of sight without a single look spared for him. He turns slowly back to the cart. Is that what he is now? Someone people don’t trust around their children?

As if reading his mind, Arthur shakes his head. “Don’t take it personally. That’s what every Omega hears. You’re not a special sort of villain to them.” He glances at the Alpha cashier, who’s focusing on his work with narrowed eyes, shoulders tense beneath his smock. Arthur’s brow furrows slightly, then clears as he returns his gaze to Francis and shrugs. “Not yet, anyway.”

* * *

“Of course he won’t be welcomed back,” Basch says, hands folded neatly on top of his desk. “A district attorney, deputy or not, can’t be accused of a crime and continue to practise law. He knows that just as well as I do.”

Gilbert nods. Twenty years has never felt like a bigger gap than when he talks to Francis and Antonio’s boss. (And no—there’s only fifteen years between Gilbert and Matthew, so that doesn’t count.) “I understand. I just need to know what you told him when he came in earlier.”

It does feel a bit bizarre to dance around the town, only going places before and after Francis, but ironically it’s hard to investigate someone when they’re present. Doubly hard, in this case, given Gilbert’s closeness to the whole thing. He envies Antonio for the ability to free himself of this case, even though he knows Antonio passed on the opportunity to steer clear of it. In all honesty, Gilbert’s not sure he would have done any different, if he was in the Spanish Alpha’s shoes. But he can’t help feeling a little trapped. _Grass is always greener, I guess._

“I told him that he couldn’t come to work until this was over with. Those were my words.” Basch’s stare would be unnerving if it wasn’t so neutral; Gilbert sees why Antonio often calls him the DA-9000. “I told him if he’s found innocent, he can return to work if that’s what he wishes to do. If he’s convicted, he’ll be automatically disbarred. But as I said, he already knew that.”

Gilbert nods. “Have you ever noticed any behavior that would make you think Francis might be violent?”

“No.” Basch shakes his head, resolute. “He’s never been violent, or even impulsive. Flirtatious, yes, but he’s never said anything inappropriate, or the staff here would tell me. We have a zero tolerance policy for that sort of thing, which I’m sure your precinct shares.”

“Of course.” _Locker room conversations notwithstanding._ “Did he ever express interest about Feliciano Vargas?”

“Not to my knowledge. He often flirted with Feliciano’s brother, though.”

“Did he ever express interest in Lovino? Aside from flirting?” He knows the answer to this already, and he knows Antonio will grind his teeth reading this in the report, but he has to do his job.

“No. Everyone in this office has been waiting for Antonio to court Lovino, Francis included.”

 _That’ll make Toni happy, at least._ “Did anything about Francis ever make you at all suspicious, or concerned?”

Basch hesitates now. “Well. He’s never quite sure of himself. So I’ve always encouraged him to . . . to be more ambitious.” He lowers his head, lips pressed into a thin line. “To go after what he wants.” A long, almost pained pause, and then Basch lifts his head to settle a heavy gaze on Gilbert. “To not take _no_ for an answer.”

* * *

The town hall’s parking lot is overflowing with cars when they drive by; Arthur slows down, wary of the cars lining the road. His mutter about parking over the white line being illegal is cut off when he sees the hall. His eyes narrow. “There’s no meeting scheduled today, is there?”

“No,” Francis replies quietly, shame thick in his throat.

All at once, Arthur is completely, one-hundred-percent sick of the French Alpha’s moping. So he puts on his signal light and turns into the parking lot. There are no empty spaces, obviously, so he parks right in front of the door, fire lane be damned. He wouldn’t be fussed if this old place burnt to the ground.

Francis’s eyes widen as Arthur shuts the car off. “You’re not going in there, are you? Your frozen things will melt.”

“What does it look like to your seeing eye?” Arthur takes the key out and opens his door. “And those things can’t get any unhealthier than they already are.”

Francis scrambles out of the car to block Arthur’s path. “You’re walking into a wolf den.”

“Lions,” Arthur says, pushing past him with ease, “aren’t afraid of wolves.”

In they go. Francis hangs back, watching from the anteroom where most of the Alphas have left their coats. It’s just as well; Arthur prefers the image of his solitary entrance, a smirk ready to draw blood curling his lips. The hall is full of tables and chairs, but the tables have been pushed aside so the Alphas can sit in a big circle, like an AA meeting. Arthur expected to see the reverend, but he’s absent; it’s mostly just the vocal middle-aged Alphas of the town populace. Every single one of them is in some variation of a plaid shirt. The air is thick with cheap coffee and conservatism. As he strides in, he hears someone saying, “. . .  a petition to disbar him and remove him from the community.” But as soon as one Alpha notices him, the hive mind buzzes and they all turn to look at him, silent and glowering.

Arthur once read a study about the Alpha gaze—not the equalist nonsense, but the actual eyes of Alphas compared to those of Omegas. Apparently the gaze of the typical Alpha is perceived as three times more intense than the average Omega’s, which is why companies are more inclined to use Omegas as models. Of course, activists were quick to say that it was just an excuse to perpetuate Omega objectification. But Arthur agrees with the study. Most Alphas do have powerful stares.

Which is why he’s perfected his righteous glare.

He passes it generously round the room, giving each Alpha his fair share and making sure to look right into their eyes just to really piss them off, then says, “Oh, don’t stop on my account.” He pulls out an empty chair at the end of a table and swings a leg up onto it so he can rest his hands on his bent knee. “I didn’t receive any notice of this town meeting, but I suppose it got lost in the post. So, what are we discussing?” He glances left and right from his place at the center of the circle. “Who’s hosting the annual barbecue, perhaps? The mortality of the penny?”

Behind him, an Alpha growls, “You weren’t invited because you don’t live here.”

Across the circle, another adds, “And you aren’t welcome here.”

“Really?” Arthur spots a police officer, an Alpha younger than him who’s probably only here so the chief of police can’t be blamed for negligence if a fight breaks out. Arthur strides over, offering his wrists. “You’d better take me in.”

The officer steps backward, quite literally taken aback. Arthur can’t imagine him holding a gun, let alone firing one at a criminal. _So much for bravest and boldest._ He turns around, turning his smirk up a few notches. “Oh, that’s right. I _am_ welcome here, legally.” He casts his gaze round the circle again, pleased to see some of them are having trouble staying in their seats. There’s a bright side to that generation: they grew up thinking you couldn’t yell at Omegas, the poor twats. “And the law is what decides things here. Laws are the rules of our society. What do you call someone who goes against the rules in that beloved scripture of yours? Heretic?”

Some Alphas look stricken; others boil with rage. To Arthur’s surprise, it’s the rookie who speaks up: “I-If you care so much about law, where’s Bonnefoy? He has to be under your supervision.”

Arthur glances toward the door, where Francis peeks in from the anteroom. “I assumed he would be better off waiting outside. Considering how I’ve been treated here, it seems I was correct.” He walks back to the door with, as he told Francis, his head high and his shoulders back—and his hips doing most of the work, to give those old Alphas something to think about when they go home to mates who probably don’t even know what squirting is. At Francis’s side, he looks over his shoulder. “Innocent until proven guilty. Keep that in mind.”

He lets the chill wind slam the door shut and takes a deep breath of it, enjoying the feeling of the cold air meeting the heat inside him. His chest does ache a little, but nothing serious. (His doctor advised him to avoid confrontation, to which he replied, _You do know what I do for a living, yes?_ ) “In,” he says, dropping into the driver seat, “and out, unscathed.”

In the passenger seat, Francis smiles—without looking like he might burst into tears, for once. “My worry was misplaced. I should have gone in first and warned them a lion was on the way.”

Arthur can see why some Omegas can’t stand this. “Don’t milk it.”

Francis’s smile wilts a little. “Sorry.” He glances out the side window, watching the hall until it leaves his field of view. “Thank you, though. For defending me in there.”

“No, thank _you_ , for sounding so surprised. It’s almost like I actually do my job from time to time.”

They’re dropped into silence, and Arthur glances over to see the French Alpha looking down at his hands, the fingertips of which are still blackened, defiant to the scrubbing he gave them in the courthouse bathroom. _Poor puppy._ He’s never met an Alpha with such thin skin; he knew Francis took losses hard, but he just thought it was an ego thing. And it is, but the opposite, a severe lack of ego. No wonder his flirting seems so slimy, if it’s coming from a place of such poor self-esteem. Someone who looks like that shouldn’t _need_ to talk, as far as Arthur is concerned. But he doesn’t say any of that, just enjoys the peace and quiet for a while.

Neither of them speak, in fact, until they reach the last intersection that will take them out of the town. Arthur eases to a stop, and the light changes to red. Francis looks over at him. “You could have made that.”

 _For God’s sake._ “It doesn’t matter if you _could_ make an amber light. It matters if you can’t. That’s the only reason you go through. Unless, I don’t know, someone’s in labor or something.” He had to take a ridiculously patronizing course to convert his British license to an American one, and the instructor had actually accused him of being _too aggressive,_ to which he had replied, _Let’s see you go for a Sunday drive in London and then we’ll talk about being aggressive._ Which probably hadn’t proven that he was a calm driver, in retrospect, but he got the conversion, so whatever.

Francis has the same surprised look the instructor had given him. “I’m surprised you’re such a stickler for safe driving.”

Arthur arches an eyebrow at him. “I’m surprised you’re not, considering the company you keep.”

Francis’s face softens, abruptly fond. “Gil did pull me over once, back when he was a patrolman. But he let me off.” His gaze drops to his lap again. “Not this time.”

Arthur wonders if all French people keep melancholy on speed dial. The light turns green, and off they go. Arthur finds himself checking his right mirror more and more, for an excuse to see if Francis’s mood is improving or not. Which means he doesn’t see what causes the collision on his left side.

Both of them jolt, more from the noise than the force of the impact. Francis is twisting in his seat to look out the back windows. “What the hell did we hit?”

A motor roars and they both watch a truck haul out around them as Arthur pulls over. Francis says, softly, “Oh.”

Arthur doesn’t speak, just gets out of the car and walks round to see the damage. The fender is dented, ugly metal exposed where the paint is torn; thankfully the truck just clipped them, otherwise it would’ve been much worse. He’d be dead, probably—not from the crash, but from the fact that he would’ve thrown himself at the truck in a blind murderous fury and been run over. _Then he’d get off on self-defense,_ he thinks. _Fucking yokel son of a bitch._

Francis is standing at his elbow now, so Arthur says, “An inch closer. Try it.” He backs off a good two feet. God, Arthur’s chest is on fire. He tries the deep breaths, but he feels like he’s breathing through a straw. He ducks his head, squeezing the bridge of his nose for an excuse to close his eyes; if Francis thinks he’s enraged, he won’t think he’s afraid to pass out. _One, two, three, four, five._ He does it three times before he feels alright enough to break the dragging silence. “Did you see the plate?”

The concern on Francis’s face is quickly shifted aside for guilt. “No, sorry, I didn’t think to look.”

Arthur looked, but he can’t remember what the numbers were. _What does that remind you of?_ No. _Damn it, damn it, fucking damn fucking it._ Absolutely not. He is not thinking about Matthew right now. He isn’t thinking about anything but going home and taking his pills with a nice, warm, soothing cup of tea. The bliss of routine.

“It doesn’t matter,” Arthur says, even though the heart pounding against his sternum disagrees.

“There are only so many people with trucks like that in town—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Arthur repeats. “The Vargas estate will pay for it.”

* * *

“You’re not in trouble,” Gilbert assures him, with a teasing twist to his smile that only comes off looking malevolent. “I just need you to tell me what happened last night.”

Toris was in Gilbert’s graduating class, but they were never friends in school. (They were the opposite, at one point; Gilbert didn’t actively join in the bullying of the mousy Alpha, but he didn’t do anything to stop it, either.) Now that the other jocks are out of the picture, and they’ve matured beyond the pack-forming, weak-culling mindset of adolescence, and Toris is the only person Gilbert can pay to pour him a drink—they’re on good terms.

Still, Toris crosses his arms over his chest— _defensive posture,_ marks the detective mind—and pinches at the skin of his upper arms. “Well, it was pretty normal. It was a Thursday night, so there weren’t a lot of people here, just some regulars. Toni and Francis came in and started drinking, and I could tell Francis was upset. He got a little carried away, so we cut him off. He told Toni to go home ahead of him, and then he left, too. That was the last time I saw him.”

Gilbert nods. Since Antonio can’t call himself as a witness, Toris’s testimony is vital to prove that Francis was, indeed, outside at the time Feliciano reported. “Did he say what he was upset about?”

Toris shrugs, uncertain. “No. I just assumed a case didn’t go the way he planned. He usually gets upset when that happens.”

“Does he drink a lot when his cases go wrong?”

“Well . . . I don’t know if I could say a _lot_ . . . He was definitely drinking to get drunk, though. He was drinking like people do when they want to forget something.”

Gilbert clears his throat a little, remembering what he told Antonio: _I’m not saying anything, until I have all the evidence._ But after what he’s seen so far today, he’s beginning to feel like silence is impossible. “So, Francis left here after Antonio did. How much time elapsed in between?”

Toris nibbles on his lip. “Maybe—ten minutes?”

Gilbert blinks. “He waited ten minutes just so he could walk by himself?”

Toris shrugs. “I’m no psychologist, but I think he just wanted a little alone time. I don’t think Francis is very good at that, though.”

Gilbert glances up from his notes. “At what?”

“At being alone.”

* * *

Francis has pictured Arthur’s home a few times—as a big Victorian house, once, but more frequently as a hellish cave—but he’s never been accurate, because the reality is a flat on the third floor of a building in what Francis would call a subdivision. A _small_ flat, at that; there’s probably less square footage here than in the place he and Antonio share. The shocking part is how barren it is. No decorations to speak of, no television, not even a couch. Arthur brushes rather roughly past him to set plastic bags down on the kitchen counter. Francis follows suit, looks around again, and says, “Your car is nicer than your flat.”

Arthur glances around the place as if seeing it anew. Then he shrugs. “It’s irrelevant. People see the car I drive. Nobody sees where I live.”

Francis happens to think where one lays his head is very relevant. “Still, you’re so successful, you must be able to afford—”

“Perhaps I’m saving my money, Mr. Bonnefoy,” Arthur snaps, so caustic the words almost burn holes through Francis’s chic sweater.

For a better place to live? Somehow Francis doubts it. “May I ask what—”

“Nope.” Arthur shoves the ready meal boxes into the freezer and turns as the door slams shut. “Put your shite away. I have work to do.”

 _Work_ apparently entails making a cup of tea, because he turns the kettle on immediately. Francis puts his things away in silence—the fridge is just as empty as the rest of the place—and watches Arthur cup a hand over his mouth and jerk his head back before taking his first sip of tea. He lets his eyes linger on the Omega, inquiring without voice, but he goes ignored. Francis wants to ask, but he’s already been snarled at for overstepping at least twice today. So he stays silent, watching Arthur lower the cup and exhale, noting how the tension eases from his shoulders as he does. Then he turns and walks away.

Francis has nothing else to do, so he follows. “What should I do?”

Arthur turns on a laptop, which is sitting on a little table in what is technically the living room. He takes another sip of tea before replying, “You should not bother me.”

Francis checks the time on his mobile phone. It’s not even four o’clock yet. He sees hours and hours stretching ahead of him before the trial, time with no work to fill it and no friends to brighten it. _Oh, God._ But this is better than a jail cell. That’s what he’ll have to keep reminding himself. Better than a jail cell.

“You don’t even have anywhere to lounge in here,” he mutters, running a rather frustrated hand through his hair.

As usual, when Francis is annoyed, Arthur is completely calm. He settles into his chair and says, “Lounge in the bathtub. I hear that’s relaxing.”

* * *

When suppertime rolls around, it’s a mercy. This is a bit earlier than Francis would normally eat with Antonio, but he doesn’t care. He needs something to do, to get him out of the endless loop of confusion and guilt Feliciano Vargas has dropped him into. So he sets to work on something that will surely tempt Arthur into admitting food is wonderful and eating it even better, especially when it’s food made by someone with French lineage such as Francis Bonnefoy.

But when Francis offers him some food—he doesn’t call it _good_ food or even _real_ food, just in case the sarcasm puts him off—Arthur declines and tosses one of the TV dinners into the oven. _At least he doesn’t make them in a microwave,_ Francis thinks, but it’s a weak consolation. Arthur has no kitchen table, just the one with the laptop on it, but he does have another chair he carries out for Francis. This is far from the luxury he’s always imagined defense attorneys living in, but the worst part by far is the fumes coming off the garbage Arthur is eating.

“If you could smell that as well as I can,” Francis says, “you wouldn’t even dream of putting it in your mouth.”

“Maybe I’m not as fussy as you are about what goes in my mouth.”

 _Well, we all knew that._ “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Arthur shrugs. “To each his own, I suppose. How many fucks have you had, then? Ballpark.”

The last word has Francis nearly choking on his spring water. “I don’t fuck, I make love.”

“Oh, well _excuse_ me, Your Eminence,” Arthur fawns. “I didn’t realize your heart was so _bleeding_.”

Francis looks down at his plate, vexed. “I wasn’t raised to mate without pair-bonding first.”

“Neither was I, but I got over that pretty quick.”

Francis glances up. “Oh, you had morals once?”

Arthur gives him an ugly smile. “I went to a parochial school no different than the one in your bloody podunk. A hive of hypocrisy. Nuns are supposed to be heavenly and kind, but that doesn’t stop them from caning you raw if you do something God left off his grocery list. They told me I had a _sacrilegious attitude._ ”

Francis’s eyebrows spike upward.

“I slapped a nun,” Arthur translates. “In the face. Didn’t seem too sacrilegious to me. _If your eye offend thee, pluck it out._ If parochial school makes you want to kill yourself, leave the country and get your GED stateside. So.”

Francis isn’t sure what he’s done to deserve this uncloaking of the past, but he’s fascinated, so he’ll try not to scare it away. Gently—but without seeming too gentle—he says, “So you’re here all by yourself.”

Arthur scowls lightly at his fork. “I was by myself in England, too. My God, what a cesspool. Everyone looked down their nose at everyone else. They’d run you out of town for having dirty dishwater in the sink. Not that it’s any better in the town you live in.”

“I like it,” Francis says, surprised by his own fervor. He’s liked the little town since he moved to it, but now that there are Alphas meeting in town hall to talk about kicking him out of the community . . . _We all want what we can’t have._ “It’s quiet. Not stressful.”

“Life is always stressful.” Arthur tips his head back, swallowing another pill. Francis stares at him, and Arthur can’t avoid his gaze this time, trapped as he is with the half-finished trash-on-a-tray. “I have a headache. You staring at me isn’t going to make it go away. In fact, it’ll do the opposite.”

At last, Francis gets to do a little smirk, though it’s hampered by his concern. “I thought defense attorneys were better liars than that.”

The English Omega grimaces at him. “Very clever, top marks. It’s birth control, if you must know.”

“So what was the other pill you took when we got home?” Francis asks.

“I don’t appreciate being put on trial at my own table,” Arthur retorts, but with much less acid than either of them expected. With sudden clarity, Francis realizes it’s because he’s already given in, and all he needs to do is wait for Arthur to admit it. He’s had this magical feeling, like the sun breaking through the clouds, only a couple times in court. He wonders if Arthur gets a high from tearing witnesses down on the stand. At least Francis only aims low when he’s talking to people accused of crimes.

“Hypertension,” Arthur says with a weary sigh, and puts a forkful of corn in his mouth.

Francis stares at him, uncomprehending at first. Then he puts down his fork and rests his elbows on the table to lean forward. “Arthur.”

He doesn’t look up from his food. “I thought I told you not to say that.”

 _What is wrong with him?_ “ _Kirkland_. You’re telling me you have high blood pressure? And you eat nothing but those things every day?”

“I drink tea.”

“You live on sodium and caffeine.” Francis sits back in his chair, flabbergasted. “I can’t believe you haven’t had a heart attack yet.”

Arthur nods, almost eerily calm now. “The doctor said that, too.”

Francis hadn’t considered this before. He’d thought Arthur tore into people so savagely and walked around with such confidence because he was ambitious, poised to do whatever it took to claw his way to the top of whatever obstacle blocked his path. But what if he acts the way he does because he just—doesn’t care?

The English Omega is standing now, taking his things to the kitchen. “I’m glad I agreed to bring you into my home. You’ve really lightened the atmosphere.”

Francis takes his plate in, too, filling the sink with warm water before Arthur gets the chance. He’s got the makings of a plan—something that will help someone else and give him something constructive to think about, two birds with one stone—but he’ll need to ease into it. “Tell me. What do you want? Out of life?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Francis blinks, rather stunned. “What? Why?”

Arthur gives him a withering look. “Surprisingly enough, after you’ve told me I’ve been living my life all wrong, I don’t feel like discussing goals and philosophy with you.”

“I never said—”

“You’re fucking dripping disapproval all over the linoleum.”

“Well, I—I just don’t want you to destroy yourself.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Right. And you care about me _why_? You hated me, yesterday. No, you said you didn’t hate me, right? You just _disapprove_ of me. You think I should be more friendly. More healthy. More fun. Well, nobody’s as perfect as you, Bonnefoy. Sorry.”

Francis opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it, and then closes it again. He can’t say _I’m not perfect_ because that just makes him sound humble and proves Arthur’s point. He can’t say he’s not disapproving of Arthur, because then he’d be lying for the most part. And he can’t say he cares because he’s a good person and generally people try to help other people, because that just proves his point again. Arthur has checkmate.

But, at the same time, it occurs to him that Arthur Kirkland does not take criticism very well.

“I owe you some respect, if not appreciation,” Francis says slowly, wary of misspeaking. “You did this for me, even though you didn’t have to. So, that’s why I care. Because you helped me. I feel like I should return the favor.”

Arthur gives him a skeptical, sidelong look. Francis feels like he’s being sniffed by a guard dog.

“I’m not your personal project,” Arthur says, low.

“No,” Francis agrees. “It’s up to you, whether you want to change your habits or not. I’m just offering you some alternatives. If you like them, great. If not, fine.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow, but then he sort of deflates, a hand rising to cup his sternum as if to keep his heart in. “This conversation is over. I need to get to work. I’ve done nothing but faff about with you all day.”

“Or you could relax,” Francis murmurs. “Lie down for a while.”

Arthur looks disgusted, but if it’s the suggestion or the feeling in his chest Francis can’t tell. “I’ll lie down for twenty minutes. But only because I do have a headache now,” he adds. “From you.”

Francis nods, watching the English Omega vanish into what must be the bedroom. As he sinks his hands into the warmth of the dishwater, he allows himself to feel a bit guilty about giving Arthur such a hard time. _Interventions are necessary to help people._ A light bulb comes on, and he flicks water off his hands, steps to the refrigerator. He’s a little shocked by the price tag on the ready meals; he’d always thought the market was poor people, but now he’s thinking it’s sloths and those enveloped in self-loathing. It takes Francis a short while to find a garbage bag, which he quietly transports the chilled boxes into, then hides in a cupboard under the sink. By the time Arthur finds out, they’ll have gone bad. _Put it on my tab,_ he thinks ruefully. _He’ll probably hate me for this. Oh well._

Something in his life ought to be normal.

* * *

For Lovino, hearing the hushed gasps and whimpers of his brother crying are as familiar as breathing. He’s given up trying to bully him out of it; when they were still helpless pups left to the whims of the foster system, he would snap at Feliciano. _Stop crying. Don’t be such a baby. No one’s going to be nicer to you just because you cry all the time._ But, as it turns out, that’s untrue. Now that Feliciano is a teenager—and an attractive one, at that—Alphas are very much inclined to be nice to him, and the meeker he is the more they want to protect him. Of course, there may be those out there who would take advantage of that. But Feliciano so desperately clings to Lovino that there’s little chance of that. Only when Lovino lets him out of his sight do bad things happen.

Lovino rolls over and flicks on the lamp beside his bed. Across the room, in his own bed, Feliciano is just a lump under the covers, trembling with barely stifled sobs. Lovino sighs quietly, rises, and crosses to the yellow half of their bedroom. “Move,” he mumbles, any roughness lost in the gauze of sleep still stuffed down his throat. Feliciano scoots over, and Lovino climbs under the covers with him. The pillow is soaked, but Lovino says nothing about it, just puts his arms around Feliciano as the younger Omega curls into him.

“It’ll be okay,” Lovino whispers. He never used to say that; less because he didn’t want to lie to his brother and more because he didn’t want it to come back and bite him in the ass when he was inevitably wrong. They got through all those bad times, though. They’ll get through this one, too.

Feliciano opens tearful amber eyes. “It isn’t fair.”

Lovino takes Feliciano’s hands, holds them over the subtle swell of his belly. He wonders where their parents are right now, the Alpha and Omega who saw fit to abandon them. They’ve never been given any details, no names, no story. Parents have more right to privacy than children do to closure, apparently. Unusual, though, for both children to be let go at once, and with such a difference in ages. Lovino doubts it was inability to provide proper care; they were probably involved in criminal activity or something. In any case, it’s very unlikely any home they had would be a good place for Lovino and Feliciano to live. Still, the last wisps of childhood inside him long for the support of adult arms, the knowledge that it’s not all up to him. _It’ll be okay, Lovino._ It makes him tear up, every time he thinks about it.

Lovino could move out of the parsonage any time, but Feliciano can’t for another two years, and Lovino is not going to leave his brother alone, reverend or no reverend. The few times Feliciano has stayed at a school friend’s house for a sleepover, Lovino tossed and turned all night long, unable to sleep without the comfort of another body in the room. He’s just as emotionally dependent as Feliciano is, and he hates it, but he doesn’t know how to cut that unhealthy tie without severing all the others in the process.

“Life isn’t fair,” Lovino murmurs, but Feliciano has already drifted to sleep, exhausted by the stress of the day. Lovino thinks of Antonio, Gilbert—Alphas who now hold his and his brother’s fate in their hands. _Please,_ he thinks, turning his face away from the light of the lamp and closing his eyes. _Don’t fuck us over._

* * *

When Arthur wakes up, it’s been an hour rather than twenty minutes since he laid down. He lies there in the dark, letting the fire of his anger flare, then flicker down to coals and crumble to ash. He would be content to just lie in here until the building falls down and the planet flies into the sun. Being vaporized by radioactive heat would be less galling than going out there and having another intimate conversation with Francis Bonnefoy. He should never have brought up growing up in England, that was where he screwed up. Boundaries can’t have exceptions. He should march right out there and inform him, under no uncertain terms, that there will be no more talk of health, past, future—in fact, nothing personal at all. _Nothing that doesn’t pertain to the case._ That’s the way he usually does things, after all. Ivan Braginski certainly doesn’t know he went to parochial school. Sadik would probably say Arthur eats the souls of virgins for supper. Which is flattering, but untrue. Obviously.

 _I don’t fuck, I make love._ What a little bitch. Arthur wonders if he’s ever _made love_ before or if he’s just saying that for his image. _Pity the poor fool who bedded the frog._ He probably pontificated about the meaning of life as foreplay and then made up a diet chart for aftercare.

And what kind of guest comes into someone’s place and talks like that? _He doesn’t even know me._ That’s what really pisses him off. Francis got one detail about his life and started trying to fix things. _Is that what happens when you work with victims all the time?_ Perhaps. Or perhaps it’s instinctive. The whole protective-Alpha, needy-Omega bit. Arthur scowls into the dark. _Ridiculous._

Francis cares too much, that’s what he thinks. About everything. No wonder he’s always doubting himself and overdoing it. _Give less of a shit,_ Arthur should tell him, the next time the French idiot comes at him with life advice. _It works wonders._

He’s not going to bed at six o’clock, so he gets up. His headache is gone, and his chest feels normal again. _I won’t fight with him again tonight._ It’s not worth the physical toll, getting worked up like that. He smooths his hair back—the pillow mussed it—and takes a few steadying breaths. _Pretend you’re in court. Be the bigger person._ And if Bonnefoy starts talking about personal things again? _Tell him it’s none of his business. Politely._

Always a catch.

Plan in mind, he steps out of the bedroom. He took his tie off before he fell asleep, so he expects Francis’s gaze to linger on his chest, and it does. He realizes it’s been a decade since anyone saw him in a state of undress without fucking him at some point. Not that he cares. In how many films does the Omega blush when he sees the Alpha shirtless, like nobody ever told him nipples exist? One of many cliches Arthur actively works to avert.

“Get up,” he says. “We’re going back to town.”

Francis rises from his chair. “How did you sleep?”

Arthur looks at him.

Francis looks back.

“Fine,” Arthur replies.

Francis only makes it five minutes in the car before he says, “I just want to apologize. For being so nosy.”

“Just forget about it,” Arthur mutters, eyes on the road. Being polite to French passengers should count as distracted driving.

“But—”

“You have more important things to worry about than me.”

Silence, less the hum of the fan blowing warm air on them. Arthur finds it a bit too hot, but he doesn’t touch the dial, since Francis isn’t wearing a coat and Alphas seem to have trouble maintaining temperature regardless. _I’m not making sacrifices for a client ever again._ Then, with a startling sensation that he first thinks is arrhythmia but then realizes is self-awareness, he replays that thought in his mind.

As Arthur merges onto the highway, he says, “I’m sorry.”

He can feel Francis’s gaze searching him for ulterior motives. “Why?”

 _Don’t make me feel stupid for being polite, you bastard._ “Because I’m not a nice person, and you are, more or less. So don’t be surprised that we don’t get on. Most of it is me, not you. Fire and water don’t make good companions.”

A pause, then Francis says, “It seems more like fire and gasoline.”

Arthur glances just as a passing car lights up Francis’s smile. “Which is which?”

“I’m inclined to say you’re fire, but you do smell like a chemical compound.”

“Fuck you.”

But, the bizarre part: they’re both laughing.

“You should smile more,” Francis says, amusement still warping his voice. “It’s nice.”

“That’s a great way to ensure I never smile again. And we’re sitting in the dark, anyway. How would you know how nice it is?”

“I can hear it when you talk, and it sounds good.”

Arthur stays silent, but his smile remains, small and crooked as it is. _That one wasn’t too bad._

* * *

By the time they get to town, Francis feels much better. The hour of separation benefited them both, evidently. He spent most of it doing yoga, which he suspects will become a large facet of his life now that he’s sworn off drinking (he wouldn’t say no to a lovely glass of red wine, of course; even monks like wine). It’s a very clean way to get rid of the negative feelings inside, and he intends to invite Arthur to join him the next time he does it. Antonio often did it with him, and Gilbert tried it a few times, but he didn’t have enough interest to invest time in becoming more flexible. Francis suspects Arthur is even stiffer than Gilbert, but at least he has the advantage of being petite; Gilbert could barely twist his arms for eagle because his biceps got in the way.

Francis almost expects Arthur to drop him off at the police station and request the court assign a supervision officer, but that doesn’t happen. Instead, Arthur drives to the pub and then keeps driving, slower than the speed limit. “So,” he says, “somewhere along here, right?”

Francis’s lighthearted thoughts of yoga poses are replaced with a roiling black cloud of dread, but he looks out the window, hoping to get some memory jogged. “Yes. Somewhere.”

“It would be on this side of the road, wouldn’t it? Unless you walk with traffic.”

It’s a relief to hear Arthur enter Work Mode; they’re less likely to get into an argument, now. “I walk against. So, right, your side.”

They both peer out the window, and a flash of yellow has Francis leaning forward. A hallucination borne of a guilty conscience? No—police tape, left overnight by the officers who slacked off once Gilbert left them to their own devices.

“Oh,” Arthur says, pulling over. “That’s helpful.”

They get out of the car. Francis looks down into the ditch, the darkness where no light reaches. He knows it’s no more than a foot he can’t see, but his eyes tell him it’s infinite, that he could jump in and fall forever. Beside him, the English Omega is studying him, gauging his reaction. He shakes his head. “I don’t remember anything happening here.”

“Do you remember _being_ here?”

Francis squints down the road, where one of the streetlights is flickering at sporadic intervals. “I know I was here. But I remember being here so many other times, it all blurs together. I don’t know what night I’m remembering.”

The expected snark doesn’t come. Arthur regards the ditch, then Francis, then says, “If you were going to rape someone, how would you do it?”

Francis blinks, tongue tripping. “E-Excuse me?”

“I mean, you’d push them down, wouldn’t you.” He crouches, reaching experimentally into the black, then ducks under the police tape and slides down into the ditch. “Probably you’d push them down into here.” He glances up at Francis, face tinted red by the car’s rear lights. “Come here, this isn’t a one-person exercise.”

“I don’t . . .” This is disrespectful, he’s sure of it, but it might help him remember, so he sends an apologetic thought to Gilbert and invades the crime scene, joining Arthur in the ditch.

Arthur gestures to the sloped ground. “Pretend I pushed you down.”

Francis isn’t sure why he thought Arthur would want to be the victim in this reenactment. He brushes a hand over the grass and feels cold, damp soil cling to his skin. “I’m going to get filthy.”

“What a tragedy, pet. You can pretend I pushed you or I can just push you.”

Francis squats without touching anything. “Is this enough?”

Arthur huffs but lets it be. His crouch is awkward, bracing his hands on the wall of the ditch. Francis stares up at him—Arthur’s face is only inches from his own—then follows the English Omega’s gaze down to their overlapped bodies, with space in between of course.

Arthur tilts his head slightly. “It would be an odd trajectory, don’t you think?”

Francis has no idea how he can be so professional about this. _The redcoat’s trademark,_ he supposes. Call him a wimp, but he’d rather not discuss the mechanics of the position he may or may not have used to assault a teenager in a ditch. “I . . . I guess . . .”

“Hmm.” Arthur stands up, climbs out of the ditch. “Stay there. Don’t move.” Then he gets into the car and drives away.

Francis is left shivering, wondering if this is a prank. _Maybe he’s going somewhere for a cup of tea. Or maybe he’s going home._ He’d believe either, at this point.

But Arthur returns, driving past at normal speed, then pulling over and reversing back to Francis along the side of the road. His window is down, and he has a look in his eyes—something bright, canny, charged. “Forget the insanity defense. We’re sticking with not guilty.”

Francis had thought that was already agreed upon, but he’s more interested in the fierce certainty. “Why?” he asks, getting his hands dirtier as he removes himself ungracefully from the ditch.

“Because I could see you,” Arthur says. “And that means either nobody in this bloody ten-square-foot town drove by during the alleged assault, or people _did_ drive by and just didn’t notice, _or_ Feliciano Vargas is a liar.” His lips curl up in the corners. “Let’s see what’s behind door number three.”

* * *

It’s not planned, but after today, Gilbert needs it. So, after he eats an unenthusiastic dinner by himself and waits until most of the traffic around town has died down for the night, he puts on his coat and drives to Iris House.

The shelter isn’t technically in town; it’s a few minutes of driving away, which is why people use it as a landmark more than anything. _Once you hit Iris House, just keep going._ That could be a good rule for the Omegas with no better place to stay than the shelter, actually. _Just keep going. You’ll get through it._

Gilbert knows the shelter has no video surveillance, but it does have a gate they close after dark, so he couldn’t park there if he wanted to. He leaves his car on the side of the road—if someone recognizes it, they’ll just think he’s investigating something—and walks along the fence, counting the windows even though he knows which one it is. Climbing the chain-link is no trouble, which might mean the place is vulnerable to Alphas with evil intentions . . . but Gilbert would like to see any Alpha get past the Omega who works night shifts at the front desk. (He has that sugar-and-spice personality of matronly Southern Omegas—sugar for the residents of the shelter, spice for any Alpha exes who show up. Spice, of course, meaning pepper spray.)

Gilbert taps a knuckle against the window, three times. A moment passes, then the glass sides aside, and Matthew peers at him, face marred by the bars. They’re for the Omegas’ protection, of course, but all they do is remind Gilbert of Francis standing in the holding cell. Matthew’s watery violet eyes aren’t all that different from Francis’s terrified blue ones . . .

“Gil! What are you doing here?” Matthew whispers. “You didn’t say you were coming tonight.”

“I know. I just . . .” He brushes a fleck of mauve paint off one of the bars. (Matthew lives, fittingly, in the Purple Room.) “I needed to see you.”

Matthew twines their fingers, and Gilbert gently draws them closer, nuzzling Matthew’s hand, breathing vanilla soap and the comforting scent from the little gland at the crook of his wrist. Matthew is watching with warmth in his eyes and a smile on his lips, none of the fear he showed the first time Gilbert touched him, so he presses a light kiss to the back of Matthew’s hand.

“I heard what happened,” Matthew murmurs, sympathy wilting his smile.

Gilbert winces. “News spreads fast around here.”

“That kind of news spreads even quicker in a place like this.”

“Well, that’s probably for the best.” He’s not sure what makes him blurt out the next sentence. “But the Omegas here don’t need to be afraid of Francis.”

Matthew’s expression darkens, and he releases Gilbert’s hand. “I didn’t think I had to be afraid, either.”

A tremble in his voice has a soft whine rising from Gilbert’s throat before he can stifle it. “I’m sorry.”

Without warning, Matthew reaches for him through the bars, and Gilbert holds him as best he can, the side of his head resting against the bars. He doesn’t decide to say it, just hears the hollow words like they’re coming from someone else: “I never thought I would have to arrest my friend.”

One of Matthew’s hands slides up his back to stroke his hair, which never fails to calm him down. “It’s hard to tell what someone is really about until they do something you couldn’t imagine they would do. Like . . .” His voice dips to a shaky whisper. “What Ivan did.”

Gilbert’s grip instinctively tightens around him, both protective and claiming, and he feels Matthew stiffen before relaxing again. He thinks back to when he first met Matthew, how the Omega was somehow clingy without touching him; he didn’t want Gilbert to leave the room even for a second during questioning, and followed close behind when they walked, but shied away if Gilbert lifted an arm even to point at something. Gilbert can’t imagine what it must be like to be frightened of the very thing that gives natural comfort, the strength and warmth of an Alpha. He remembers the first time they got hot chocolate—which Gilbert never really liked until he witnessed Matthew sheepishly lick a cocoa mustache from his upper lip—and Matthew suddenly grabbed his hand. It was only the abruptness that startled Gilbert, but Matthew took it as rejection and shrank back, tearing up. _I’m sorry. You probably think I’m . . . some kind of slut who can’t be alone, but I . . . I really don’t want to be, I just . . ._ Gently, Gilbert told him, _I don’t think you’re a slut at all. You shouldn’t have to be alone. You deserve to be with someone who’ll make you happy and keep you safe._ Matthew had hugged him, nearly spilling their hot chocolate and whimpering gratitude into Gilbert’s chest. The park was empty, so Gilbert had given him a tiny kiss on the temple before they pulled apart—small enough that it could be seen as a paternal sort of thing, just in case anyone saw or Matthew didn’t feel the same way Gilbert was seriously starting to. Then he’d offered his hand, and Matthew had taken it with a smile, and they’d talked and walked all around the park with twined fingers until their cups were empty.

Now, Matthew pulls back to look fondly up at him, framing Gilbert’s face with warm hands. “And what you’ve done for me. You’ve changed my life.”

Gilbert leans into the touch a little, half a smile tugging on his lips. “For the better, I hope.”

Matthew’s beautiful eyes sparkle. “So much better.”

Gilbert wants to kiss him so terribly, _terribly_ bad, but he doesn’t. _Two months._ Then Matthew can move in with him and he’ll never have to be afraid, ever again. He settles for another kiss to the back of Matthew’s hand—both hands, since they’re readily available.

“I hate these bars,” Matthew remarks, giving levity Gilbert’s day has severely lacked. “I feel like a convict.”

“Fifty-eight days,” Gilbert reminds him. (He could give it in hours, too.)

Matthew smiles. “Then I get the best birthday present ever.”

The other side of Gilbert’s mouth joins the smile. “A ring?”

Matthew’s eyes widen. “Well, I was going to say a bed that’s bigger than a single . . .” His expression warms when Gilbert’s alarm shows. “But a ring would be very, very nice, too.” A bit of scolding crinkles his brow. “It better not be fancy and expensive.”

Gilbert laughs. The promise ring is neither fancy nor expensive. His plans for a more serious ring, however, don’t line up with Matthew’s criteria. But that’s years—and two months—away. He gives Matthew’s hands a little squeeze. “Sweet dreams, liebling.”

Matthew gives him one last smile, so warm he forgets he’s shivering. “Good night, Gil.”

Soothed, Gilbert turns and strides off into the dark, where his worries and burdens await.

* * *

Antonio can’t sleep.

He’s never, ever had insomnia. Even on nights before exams, while Francis fretted the wee hours away, Antonio had no trouble passing out. His friends in high school used to call him _the doormat_ , since he would inevitably be the first to fall asleep (and also inevitably get embarrassing things drawn on him in permanent marker). But tonight, even though he’s mentally and physically drained, he cannot sleep.

It’s the same swirl of thoughts in his head, over and over again. _Francis would never. But why would an Omega lie about that? And Francis does flirt a lot. And Gilbert found evidence. But Francis would never. I can’t believe . . ._

Antonio can’t lie on this bed anymore, so he goes out and sprawls on the sofa instead. The statements Gilbert gave him litter the coffee table; he paws one at random and holds it over his head to read it in the weak light from the stove.

_How did you know it was Francis?_

_I could see his face, once he got close to me. From the moon._

_Could you tell he was drunk?_

_Yes. I could smell it on his breath. And he was walking funny._

_Did he say anything?_

_No. He just growled a little._

_Did you say anything?_

_No. Because he put his hand over my mouth._

Antonio closes his eyes, but all he can see is Feliciano, limbs jerking like they’re on puppet strings. He opens them again, stares up at the ceiling tiles until they go fuzzy. He drops the paper back onto the table, on top of the evidence report for the torn underwear. That’s it. Only a confession would be more incriminating. _I can’t believe . . ._

He won’t sleep tonight. He might be afraid of throwing up, if he didn’t feel so empty already. Of all the people he knows, it’s the one who he lives with. The one he figured out who he was with. The one he always planned on asking to be the godfather of his pups one day.

_I can’t believe I ever trusted him._


	5. Limerance

As he does every morning, Francis wakes at the electronic bleating of his alarm and reaches to grab his phone from the nightstand, to silence it.

Teeth sink into his arm, and he jerks back, bolts upright. “Merde! What was that for?”

Arthur sits up, too, glaring. “You almost rolled on top of me. What do you expect?” He briefly drags a hand down his face, then plucks up the phone and tosses it at Francis. “I’m showering first.”

Francis is taken aback for a moment by the sight of Arthur’s hair—not slicked back, the only style Francis has seen until now, but poking in every direction and falling messily across his forehead. He looks infinitely younger like this, and _softer_ , not that sharp creature that swans around courtrooms with polished shoes and dripping fangs. He turns his alarm off and watches Arthur get out of bed, observes the curves of his waist, hips, thighs, calves, ankles as he walks out of the bedroom. He expected Arthur to wear flannel pajamas or something of the sort, tartan slippers, perhaps a sleeping cap even—something befitting of a modest English Omega. But Francis is swiftly learning that any expectation is turned harshly on its head by Arthur at the first opportunity, and as such Arthur sleeps like an Alpha in nothing but boxer shorts. Francis wondered at it, when he saw them last night—had Arthur actually bought them solely to sleep in? But Omegas can buy whatever they want without anyone batting an eye, under the guise that the purchase is for a mate, a brother, a pup. The few times Francis has tried to buy himself more feminine outfits, he’s gotten sidelong looks and confused queries from staff: _What size is your mate? Oh. Well, er, the shoulders don’t really come wider in this, but I’ll check the back . . ._ Anyway, Francis knows Arthur doesn’t wear them under his suits, because even Antonio switches to boxer briefs when he has to dress formally despite the Spanish Alpha’s loathing for clingy clothes (on himself, that is). Boxer shorts bunch up far too much under dress pants; boxer briefs are the best alternative for Alphas. _Maybe Arthur just wears briefs normally,_ Francis thinks, and a lewd voice given volume by the sleepiness lingering in his mind adds, _Or maybe he doesn’t wear anything under there and nobody can tell because he’s an Omega._ He’s only a few steps away from the closet, he could check—

 _No._ After last night, he wants his brain cleared of lecherous thoughts. He busies himself making the bed, dropping Arthur’s wall of pillows on the floor. He’d almost commented on the surplus of pillows, until he recalled that Arthur was, in fact, an Omega and they tended to collect such things for nesting purposes. _You can pose as an Alpha all you want, but biology always wins._ Indeed, when Arthur eventually fell asleep, he did it curled up in a ball, mumbling and squeaking through the night as if he hadn’t spoken enough during the day. Francis is hit with a wave of disorientation, realizing the events of last night actually happened and were not just some blurry-edged dream.

Even after the pillow wall was made, Arthur still perched on the edge of the mattress; Francis couldn’t see him in the pitch black, but he could feel the lack of any real weight on the other side of the pillows. “You can’t be comfortable,” he commented, low because darkness always seemed to amplify things.

The response came immediate and flat. “Not with you in here, I can’t.”

Francis had actually felt a tiny bit of guilt at that, even though there was a chance—a big chance, if one asked his lawyer—that none of this was his fault. Still, if he’d just left that pub when Antonio did, none of this would be happening. Arthur would be destroying himself in peace, and Francis’s friends would still trust him to remain the most harmless of their trio. “I can take the pillows and sleep on the floor.”

“Don’t be daft.”

“I don’t mind—”

“Yes, you do.”

Francis didn’t argue with him, because he was right; he didn’t feel like breaking his back on the floor. It was pretty hard to be indignant, too, when he could smell heat-scent on the pillows, faint and muffled by detergent as it might have been. He focused mostly on not getting excited by that old scent, and by the warm, present scent of the Omega lying not two feet away. He had no hope of sleeping, for more reasons than hairs on his head, so he whispered into the quiet, “Are you asleep?”

“No.”

“Can we talk?”

“You can talk.”

“Will it keep you up?”

“I’d be up regardless.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why did you say it?”

“You _must_ do it.”

“Do what?”

“Oh, come on. You’re an unclaimed Alpha. Don’t tell me you don’t do it.”

“Do _what_?”

“Wank before bed, idiot.”

“Oh. Well, sometimes.” Francis hadn’t expected the conversation to take that sharp of a turn. He wasn’t flustered by the topic—especially not with this sweet scent tickling his nostrils—and the irritation of the English Omega amused him more than anything. “That’s what’s keeping you awake?”

“It’s routine. I’m used to it,” Arthur muttered, defensive. “It helps me get to sleep. Endorphins, and all that.”

That had Francis’s eyebrows lifting. “You do it _every_ night?”

Granted, he wasn’t exactly abstinent himself, and he knew Antonio had yet to break his streak since high school, but for an Omega to do it every night? Weren’t they supposed to have lower libido than Alphas, on average? Then again, there was nothing average about Arthur Kirkland, so that was probably irrelevant.

“Well,” Arthur said, perfectly matter-of-fact, “I sleep every night, don’t I?

“Of course I do it,” he added, even more brazen. “Unless someone does it for me.”

Francis paused, debating his self-control in light of this whole nightmare, then said, “Go ahead. Don’t mind me.”

“. . . Is this you flirting with me?”

“No,” Francis replied quickly, before anything got kicked. “It’s your flat. Your bed. What happens on the other side of the wall is none of my business.”

A pause, then Arthur rolled onto his back. Silence. Francis couldn’t help but prick his ears, but he heard no deviation in the Omega’s breathing. Then he felt a slight tremor in the blanket.

“Are you doing it?” he blurted out, because acknowledging it seemed the less awkward of the two evils. He hadn’t been lying; he really didn’t mind, and living with Antonio for so long had given them both admirable tolerance to the many quirks of the human body. Antonio wasn’t exactly a _private_ person, but this was a bit . . . well, it felt like he was breaking the rules. You weren’t supposed to start off a relationship like this, were you? Not that a relationship with someone like Arthur could ever hope to start off normally. And not that they had a relationship.

“Maybe,” was the English Omega’s rather coy reply. His voice gave nothing away; he might have been doing a crossword puzzle with that hand, instead of . . . Francis felt a bit of flush come to his chest, his neck. He could smell nothing but Arthur now, could feel the subtle, repetitive shift of the mattress as his fingers worked. Francis had done that to an Omega, once, after he convinced Francis that _It doesn’t count as mating if it’s just hands._ That had been in the first year of law school; they’d only gone out for two months before the Omega found someone else. Francis had done his fair share of weeping over the break-up—with Antonio providing tissues and tacos as needed—but in truth he knew it was for the better. He’d felt rushed the whole time; the Omega had practically pulled Francis down on top of him the first time they had the dorm room to themselves. Maybe he was old-fashioned, but what was romantic about that? Did no one do foreplay anymore?

It was a combination of the thoughts of that Omega in law school and the scent of Arthur so close that had Francis stirring. He didn’t think Arthur had any way of knowing, so it must have been based on assumption when he said, “Join me.”

Francis stared into the dark, incredulous. “Is this normal for you?”

“Does being a prude get you laid?”

So it was to spite that statement that Francis started angrily stroking his shaft. The blanket jumped with the movement, and Arthur snorted. “How inconspicuous.”

Francis struggled to keep his voice even, and in turn struggled to conceal his struggle. Omegas must have been the strong sex, after all. “Why . . . would you . . . want to . . . hide it?”

Arthur just scoffed and said, a bit breathless at last, “I want it perfectly clear: this has nothing to do with you.”

“Ditto,” Francis choked out, panting now. It had been too long since he smelled that delicious musk. Porn was an inevitability, but it always seemed empty without the warmth and the essential _scent_ of intimacy.

Arthur actually let out a snatch of laughter. “Yeah, right. Your other hand must be holding your nose, then.”

Francis couldn’t think of anything clever, because there was only one head doing any work now, but he didn’t have to because through the mattress he felt Arthur’s muscles go tense, again and again as he stifled his shudders. A far cry from the writhing and moaning that Omega had done in the dorm; no wonder it was called la petite mort. Francis wondered, very briefly, if that Omega had been putting on a show for him—then he enjoyed four seconds of bliss and got out of bed to clean up the mess. When he got back, Arthur was asleep, complete with sleep-talking. Francis listened for his name, and before he knew it he was lulled to slumber by the indistinguishable whispers and hums.

“Alright,” Arthur says, stepping back into the bedroom in a cloud of soap and shampoo. Francis valiantly avoids looking at the towel (which is wrapped around his waist, not under his arms, for those keeping track of the Alpha-isms Arthur has adopted). Arthur points at him, eyes made massive by his wet, flat hair. “You get five minutes in the shower.”

Francis has spent five minutes just lathering his hair in the past, but he doesn’t go there.

He’s out of the shower—after four minutes and thirty-two seconds, thank you very much—and trimming his stubble when Arthur bangs on the door. “What in God’s name are you doing in there?”

In the mirror, Francis watches himself theatrically roll his eyes. “Making myself presentable?”

“Good luck with that.” Arthur discovers the door is unlocked and stands in the doorway, done up in a grey suit with nary a hair out of place and strong cologne oozing through the air from where he’s just dabbed it on his neck and his wrists. “Bloody _hell_ , what are you putting in my sink?”

Francis wrinkles his nose at the smell and the tone. “It’s just hair.”

Arthur tuts, then peers closer. “Dark hair. What are you, a bottle blond?”

Francis resumes clipping along his jaw. “I could ask you the same thing. Your eyebrows are almost black.”

“Special order, to match my soul.”

“So we’re both dirty blonds.”

“Yep. Positively filthy.” Arthur crosses his arms, fingers tapping one bicep impatiently. “Sometimes I look at you and think about how you aren’t even fucking dressed yet.”

“You know, those _well-groomed Alphas_ in magazines actually do have to groom themselves to achieve that.” But Francis leaves the bathroom and throws on the first outfit he takes out of his bag, to appease the nagging Omega. Arthur pokes his head in while Francis is finger-combing the waves of his hair. Francis glances at him over his shoulder, then turns to face him. “How do I look?”

Arthur’s jaw seems a bit slack at first. “You put the _cute_ in prosecutor. Hurry up.”

Francis smiles to himself as he follows Arthur to the kitchen, where a briefcase and a travel mug of tea are waiting on the counter. “Aren’t you having breakfast?”

Arthur just raises an eyebrow at him.

“No time for breakfast,” Francis guesses. “Well. I’m bringing an apple to eat on the way, do you want one?”

Arthur shakes his head without seeming to consider it, but Francis doesn’t fight him. Not this early in the morning. On the commute to the office of Arthur’s firm—which is less driving and more sitting still—Francis crunches his apple and glances over at Arthur. The English Omega is sipping his tea, gazing out at the overcast sky with unreadable eyes. Francis wonders how Arthur and Antonio can have such similar green eyes but give off such cold from the former and such warmth from the latter.

“So . . .” Francis finds napkins in the dash—from a fast food place, of course—and wraps up his apple core in one. “Do you want to talk about last night?”

Arthur’s tone is about as colorful as the sky. “There’s nothing to say. Sex doesn’t mean anything to me, just like flirting doesn’t mean anything to you.”

The injustice has him scrambling for words. “I—That’s not true!”

“Well, you don’t give that impression if you do it to every Omega you lay eyes on.”

Francis slouches in his seat, helpless against the stone-hard truth of the words. “But I only want to make people feel good. About themselves, I mean.”

Arthur shakes his head. “It doesn’t help your case, regardless. When the Omega is seen as innocent, the Alpha has to be the bad guy.” He sips his tea again, at last glancing over at Francis and letting his gaze soften a tad. “Don’t feel so gutted. If I was the one accusing you of rape, nobody would believe me. So it goes both ways.”

* * *

“Do you drink tea?” Feliks asks in his usual silky soft voice.

Feliciano shakes his head; the beanbag chair he’s curled up on hisses quietly at the slight movement. There aren’t any real chairs in Feliks’s office, so even calling it an _office_ feels disingenuous. Everywhere are plush sofas and pillows of all shapes, sizes, textures. The floor is covered in a thick, furry carpet. The whole room is done in pastel blue and green; there’s no red in sight. _Cool, calm colors,_ he thinks, remembering art class at school. He quite enjoys painting, especially water color—the sturdy paper, delicate brushes, setting down the wax and then guiding the water to swirl and cloud the paint. Always a bit of randomness to it, no matter how skilled and strict you are. What’s that old phrase? _Life imitates art._ Apparently so. You can have the best intentions, but things can still turn out completely different from how you’d hoped they would.

“Coffee,” he replies. His voice hasn’t been right since this whole thing started. It comes out uneven as if he needs to cough, no matter how much he clears his throat. It almost feels like there’s something caught in the pipe that leads to his mouth, something keeping his words from coming out.

Feliks turns his back to grab a mug. He has no shortage of mugs and warm refreshments. “How do you take it?”

 _Light and sweet, just like you._ That’s what Grampa always used to say. Now he never looks at Feliciano with such levity anymore, and Feliciano misses it dearly. He just wants to dance on Grampa’s feet like he did when he was a pup, draw immaturely abstract pictures and have Grampa praise them as high art and pin them to the refrigerator with alphabet magnets.

“Black,” Feliciano replies.

Feliks gives him a surprised glance, but doesn’t comment. He hands him the mug, and Feliciano doesn’t bother trying to drink the bitter stuff, just breathes in the steam and lets it warm his hands.

“So.” Feliks sits down on a green sofa, legs folded beneath himself. “How are you feeling?”

Feliciano looks down at his reflection, warped by the trembling surface of the coffee. “Not the greatest.”

Antonio had introduced Feliks to him this morning. _This is Feliks. He’s a—crisis counselor._ Feliciano knows he tripped over the omission of _rape._ No one wants to say that word in his presence, not his grampa, not his brother, not even his attorney. Gilbert and Dr. Honda are the only ones he can remember actually saying it, and even then it was within the formality of their jobs as archivists of tragedy. Feliciano wonders if their avoidance of the issue is what’s making it so hard for him to speak. Everyone dances around him, worried of frightening or hurting him, when all he wants is normalcy again, before he forgets how.

Feliks nods slowly. There are never any sudden movements from him. “That’s one hundred percent normal and understandable. You lived through something horrible. I want you to think about how strong that makes you.”

Feliciano feels anything but strong right now. “But I feel . . .” He searches for the right word, a word that won’t carry any improper connotations. Lovino never seems to have trouble finding things to say. Why can’t he be more like his brother?

“Take your time, hon,” Feliks says, observing with half-lidded, deeply green eyes that seem almost sleepy to Feliciano. Still, someone sleepy isn’t someone angry or judgmental, so Feliciano doesn’t mind. They’re patient eyes, too, just like all of Feliks; he doesn’t press, just waits and draws out only the truths that want to present themselves. In that way, Feliciano prefers Feliks to Gilbert. Whenever the detective speaks to him, Feliciano worries those intense grey-red eyes can see into the deep, hidden parts of himself, parts only his brother knows about.

“I feel . . .” Feliciano shifts on the beanbag, stretching his legs out in front of him, curling the toes of his socks into the carpet. “I don’t know. Guilty, almost.”

More slow nodding from the counselor. “How come, do you think?”

Feliciano can muster only a tiny shrug.

“Because of all the attention, maybe? All the fuss?”

He nods. That is definitely part of it.

Feliks studies the soft pink polish on his nails. “I know how you feel. I felt the same way, when I went through this.”

Feliciano stares, words failing him. “W-When—?”

Feliks gives a gentle smile. “I was about your age. Fifteen, almost sixteen. I was working at an ice cream parlor. I used to love ice cream.” A wistful twist to his mouth. “My manager was an Alpha, middle-aged. He was always nice to me, nice to all of us. He loved making pups smile.” His fingertip traces the ring of his mug, round and round in circles. “One day he took me into the back, locked the door, and raped me.”

Now Feliciano knows why no one will say the word. The abrupt brutality of it takes his breath away.

Feliks lifts a hand to tuck some hair behind his ear; plastic bangles click and clang together as they drop to his elbow. “I didn’t tell anyone for three weeks. My manager acted like it never happened. But it was eating me up inside. So I told my parents, and that started the whole process. Of course, my manager said it was a lie, and a lot of people believed him. Everybody liked him.” Feliks sits up a little straighter. “I felt guilty, for the fallout of that investigation. But I’m going to tell you what no one told me: it’s not your fault. Nothing you did made this happen to you. So don’t feel guilty about it, even for a second. It was not your fault.”

Feliciano can’t take it anymore. He bursts into tears.

Feliks crosses the room and hugs him. “Don’t feel guilty or selfish,” he says, rubbing Feliciano’s back. “Francis Bonnefoy’s life has been turned upside-down, but so has yours. _He_ is to blame for all this. If anybody should feel guilty and selfish, it’s him.”

Feliciano shakes his head against Feliks’s pink fleece sweater. “I just . . . I . . .”

Feliks waits, gentle hand smoothing circles over Feliciano’s shoulder blades.

“I d-didn’t—” Feliciano closes his eyes, words fracturing into a whisper. “I didn’t w-want to tell, either.”

“That’s natural. Omegas are built for mating, right? For pleasing Alphas? And here we are fighting it. But we have to fight, Feli. We have to put ourselves first. We have to defend ourselves, one way or another.”

Miserably, Feliciano nods.

* * *

Antonio has never had this much time alone with Lovino. It’s sort of bizarre to imagine that Lovino has been Antonio’s legal secretary for over a year and they’ve never had more than a ten-minute conversation. He’s always _meant_ to ask Lovino things unrelated to work—favorite color, best memory, whether or not he can touch his nose with his tongue—but the opportunity never presented itself. He’s always doing something, or headed somewhere, or hanging out with Francis—and, likewise, Lovino’s quartet of DDAs keep him busy, and all of his spare time is dedicated to Feliciano. Antonio thinks about how close together they stand, how Feliciano always follows in a fixed proximity to his brother like a moon orbiting a planet. Sitting beside Lovino in the waiting room below the rape counselor’s office, Antonio can’t stop wishing they were here under less personal circumstance, so he could talk to Lovino about inconsequential things without coming off as shallow.

“It’s very good of you,” Antonio says, shifting a bit in his chair. No matter how he sits, his knees are uncomfortably high compared to his hips. All of the waiting room seats are generous with cushion but not so much with height. _Made for Omegas,_ he thinks. He’s quite glad there are no other patients in the cozy waiting room; he suspects they would not feel very safe with an Alpha only a few steps away, regardless of how harmless he thinks he looks. “To be here for Feliciano. He’s lucky to have a supportive brother.”

Lovino glances at him. Antonio will admit, Lovino has a considerable case of resting bitch face, but he’s learned to appreciate it. After all, he’s no less beautiful when he’s irritated; he could be an angered goddess, disdainful of his hapless followers. Antonio wouldn’t mind bowing down to worship Lovino . . .

“—zone out in the middle of a conversation?”

Antonio blinks. “Um.” There are only so many options here. “Yes?”

Lovino shakes his head. “I was _saying_ , we’re all each other have ever had. And I was about to say he’s lucky to have a lawyer who gives him a ride to see his therapist, but maybe I’ll retract that statement.”

Antonio smiles. “I was coming up here, anyway. And I like to help my clients however I can.”

He’d planned on having a meeting with Arthur Kirkland this morning, but after their phone call earlier, _that’s_ not happening. Granted, Arthur doesn’t have any of the evidence that Antonio does, but can he not see how this case will go down? In his shoes, Antonio would take the plea bargain he’d offered in a second, even if he had to spend the whole day convincing his client it was in his best interest. But Arthur had just said, _Hang on, let me check with my client. He says no._ Antonio’s grip had tightened on his phone. _You didn’t even ask him._ Arthur sounded enragingly flippant: _Sure I did. You’re on speaker phone. He’s shaking his head. You didn’t want to go to prison, did you? No. Thanks but no thanks, Carriedo._ Antonio had forced himself to breathe evenly and speak as calmly as possible, because he didn’t want Arthur or Francis to know how worked up he was. _Fine. But, from one professional to another, you’re making a mistake._ Arthur had just said, _Let me know when the rape kit comes back. Ta._ Then he’d hung up, before Antonio could respond that he was under no obligation to hand over the kit if it was incriminating for Francis. Only evidence that shed an innocent light on the defendant had to be turned over during discovery. He was the one with the information, and knowledge was power. So how did the redcoat manage to make him feel so . . . _impotent_?

“I’ve never seen you provide taxi service for a client,” Lovino remarks, reminding Antonio how familiar his secretary is with his work.

“Well,” he allows, “some need more help than others. And this case is—different.”

He immediately regrets the last sentence. He’s not supposed to treat this case as _different._ He’s supposed to just do his job, without getting personal. But if his boss knows how he feels about Lovino, he _must_ expect Antonio to be at least a little bit biased? Anyway, he isn’t doing anything wrong here. All attorneys should hold their clients’ welfare as a priority, emotionally as well as legally. Why can’t that concern extend to immediate family?

“Different,” Lovino echoes, looking at Antonio intently now. “How is it different?”

 _Because I’ve never wanted to kiss my client’s big brother before._ “Well—I just mean, assault cases are different. They let you work with the victim. They’re more complicated, but . . .” He stops himself, before he can say something moronic like _I don’t mind a challenge._ He’s talking about a teenager non-consensually losing his virginity in a ditch, for God’s sake!

Lovino nods, glancing away again. “Ah.”

The silence stretches out across their laps. Antonio withdraws a pack of gum. “Want something to chew on? It’s kinda hot,” he adds, remembering Gilbert’s face when he spat the stuff out after one bite.

The Italian Omega arches an eyebrow and accepts the unspoken challenge. They sit and chew, Antonio keeping an eye on Lovino to see if any tears come to his eyes. On the contrary, Lovino purses his lips and blows a tiny red bubble before cracking it between his teeth. Antonio tries to replicate it, but he’s too eager and his bubbles pop before they reach any respectable size.

Somewhere outside, a string of car horns blare through the quiet. The only windows on the main floor are small and blocked by blinds, but Lovino still twists instinctively to look. “City ambiance,” Antonio says. “I grew up with that. One house I lived in, there was a train that went by every night at ten o’clock. I was just a pup, so I was in bed long before then. The whole building would shake, it was ridiculous. The first month, it woke me up every time, but I got used to it. Then when I started living on campus at uni, I couldn’t get used to how quiet it was.”

“Do you miss it?” Lovino asks, in a new tone that’s actually—friendly. “The noise?”

“Maybe sometimes,” Antonio says. “I miss all the things happening all the time. There’s always something to _do_ in a city. But small towns are good, too. No traffic jams. Less gun crime. And people wave,” he adds, hurrying away from talk of people getting hurt. “It’s nice to be _known_ , you know? To feel like you’re part of a community.”

There’s something bright in Lovino’s eyes now. “Sometimes it’s nice _not_ to be known, too.”

For the first time, Antonio considers that being the adopted pup of arguably the town’s most respected Alpha might not always be rainbows and daisies. “It must be hard,” he says, as gently as he dares. “To have expectations on you all the time.”

Lovino heaves a cinnamon-scented sigh. “Yeah. I have to set an example. It’s . . . I don’t know. It’s exhausting. Like, I can’t be myself. I used to swear all the time, when I was young. It made me feel less mad all the time. But the reverend said I have to be a good role model for the other Omegas in the church and he washed my mouth out with soap until I stopped.”

Antonio regards him with kindness. He wasn’t exactly encouraged to curse growing up, but he never had the storybook punishment Lovino did. He was more likely to be denied dinner, which—with his dam’s traditional cooking skills—was enough to keep him clear of most unsavory behavior. “You can say whatever you want with me. I don’t care about setting examples. I could teach you to swear in Spanish,” he offers. “So the reverend won’t get wise.”

Lovino blinks, then treats Antonio to a smile, and if Antonio would bow to him when he has no expression, he would face armies and move mountains for that gorgeous smile. “I’m pretty sure Spanish is close enough to Italian that he’d figure it out. But thanks.”

“I could ask Gil to teach us some crazy German swear words. Nobody can figure those out.” He waits until Lovino is done chuckling, so he can hear all the bells of the little sound. “But if you hate living with the reverend and going to church so much, why don’t you move? There are apartments in town that aren’t too bad. I live in one,” he adds needlessly, as if his presence is an assurance of quality.

“I can’t leave Feli,” Lovino says, with a simple devotion that leaves no room for negotiation. “Once he’s old enough, we’ll move somewhere. Maybe the city. I haven’t decided yet.”

Antonio wonders if that would mean Lovino would no longer work as his secretary, but it seems too self-centered to ask right now. “Just the two of you, in the city? That’s brave.”

He doesn’t realize how patronizing that seems until Lovino bristles. “Omegas have to be brave,” he snaps, crossing his legs in one sharp motion, “when there are Alphas like Francis out there.”

Antonio tries to think of some comfort that won’t make Omegas sound helpless, but it’s surprisingly difficult under short-notice. “You don’t need to worry about bad Alphas, if you surround yourself with good ones.”

At that, Lovino snorts. “That’s just what I want. To be surrounded by Alphas.”

Antonio laughs. “Well, just one is usually enough.”

“Yeah?” Lovino crosses his arms over his chest, arching a fine eyebrow. “Maybe I don’t want a mate and pups and all that.”

“Well. That’s your choice.” Antonio sits back in his slightly too-short chair. His gum tastes bitter now. “But it would be a shame.”

Now the Italian Omega’s shoulders arch like a cat puffing itself up to hiss. “Don’t start with the _Omegas were designed by God to carry life and to abstain is to go against His will_ because I’ve heard that so many times I’ll strangle the next person who says it. My body is my body and I’ll do what I damn well want with it—”

Antonio almost doesn’t want to interrupt this, because the fire in those hazel eyes and the warmth when those mocha cheeks burn with passion— _Dios mío._ But he doesn’t want, has never wanted, Lovino to be cross at him, so he says with a gentle rasp to his words, “It would be a shame for _me._ ”

Lovino stares at him for a solid thirty seconds while the anger leeches out and epiphany sets in. “I thought you were just flirting because Francis was flirting,” he says. “You never seemed really interested. I mean, you never asked me . . .”

“I seemed _uninterested_? Oh, God.” Antonio lets his head fall into his hands. “I didn’t want to rush anything. I was trying not to be creepy.”

“You were standing next to Francis Bonnefoy. You were the less creepy one by default, Toni.”

 _Toni?_ He’s never called him by that before. Antonio sits up, excitement fluttering in his chest. “Then let me ask now. Do you have any interest in _me_?”

Lovino looks at him, takes all of him in, for a long moment. Just a hint of a smile curves the corner of his perfect lips. “Maybe.”

Then Lovino is standing up, and Antonio turns to see Feliciano coming down the stairs. It’s clear, between his red-rimmed eyes and shaky breaths, that he’s been crying. Lovino bundles him into a coat bulky enough to hide the desirable body beneath. The brothers huddle together a moment, not saying a word, just sharing space. Antonio has never relied on someone else so intensely, and he wonders at it: how could they ever live their own lives? What will happen when they take mates? Antonio imagines sharing a bedroom not just with another Omega, but with another Omega’s _Alpha._ How could you do . . . anything?

 _You’re getting ahead of yourself._ He abandons thoughts of the future and instead focuses on the present: two unhappy Omegas. He considers how best to cheer them up. What makes him happy when he’s upset? Karaoke night at the pub, fast driving, bright sunsets, churros, chocolate ice cream. The latter seems the best bet, but in November? They could get a carton from a store, but that’s hardly the same. _Oh, I know!_

“We should get slushies,” he announces. “Bright colors and sugary goodness, that’s just what we need.”

Feliciano brightens a little, but Lovino’s brow only gets lower. “Where are we going to find a slushie a month away from winter?”

“They have them all year at the cinema,” Antonio points out.

“I don’t want to see a movie right now,” Feliciano says, sniffling.

“That’s okay,” Antonio says, holding the door open for them. “We can still get slushies.”

Feliciano steps through, but Lovino pauses, looking dubiously up at Antonio. “Don’t you have to buy tickets before you buy food?”

Antonio winks. “We’ll see if they sue us.”

Feliciano giggles, and Lovino glances between both grinning faces before he relents. “Oh, fine.”

* * *

Arthur’s flat may not be how Francis imagined defense attorneys living, but the firm is exactly how he imagined them working. The rumor of _a whole floor of sexy secretaries_ has very understandable origins; Francis has never seen such an array of productive, smartly dressed Omegas, all clacking on keyboards and speaking in professional tones into receivers. And the decor—soaring ceiling, carved pillars, and black marble floor to reflect the masculine grandeur. Francis can’t help but think of the DA office as shabby in comparison. It might be full of people striving to put criminals behind bars and maintain justice in the world, but that doesn’t mean the doors don’t need stoppers to stay open, the wallpaper doesn’t peel a little in the corners, the registers don’t give off squeals and rattles as well as heat. But then, isn’t it fitting that the defenders of victims should live modestly, while the defenders of evildoers live awash in gold and greed? The stereotype of the slimy lawyer was born in firms like this. After all, none of these people are getting up so early on a Saturday to help people; all they care about is overtime, billable hours, bonuses. Armed with the moral high ground, Francis doesn’t feel so overwhelmed.

Until a massive hand claps him on the shoulder, and a not-inside voice says, “Come to see how the other half live, did you?”

Francis makes a sound best described as a squeak. Arthur glances over from chatting with his secretary, lets an amused smirk curl his lips, then resumes the conversation. Left to fend for himself, Francis slowly turns around, straightening his sweater as best he can.

Mikkel Densen grins down at him. “Did I scare you? And here I thought prosecutors had nerves of steel.” He gives Francis’s shoulder a squeeze—Francis is surprised his bones don’t grind—and laughs, a big, confident, head-tipped-back laugh that brings Francis right back to high school. This is the tough jock all the Omegas flocked around while artsy Alphas like Francis wilted with the other wallflowers.

He remembers Arthur’s advice. _Head up, shoulders back. Like you have a spine._ Francis stands up as straight as he can—still nearly a foot shorter than this Scandinavian piece of work—and thrusts a hand between them. “Francis Bonnefoy. Deputy District Attorney.”

Mikkel takes the hand and gives it a mighty shake, icy eyes twinkling with amusement. “I wouldn’t say that too loud around here. I only hire lawyers who bite.” Arthur has turned to observe them, so Mikkel snakes an arm around him. “We keep ’em hungry here, right, Kirkland?”

Arthur glances down at the broad, veined hand draped across his shoulder, then smirks up at Mikkel. “Starving.”

Francis has seen quite enough of that, and apparently one of the secretaries agrees, because the older Omega clears his throat and says, “Mikkel, you have a meeting in fifteen minutes. In your office.”

“Do I really?” Mikkel turns away from them both, attention expertly stolen by his mate.

Arthur is already walking; Francis leaps after him. “That’s your boss?”

“One of them.” Arthur stops in front of an elevator. “His name is first, so he’s the richest one here.”

“Does he always touch you like that?”

“No, usually he fucks me raw across his mate’s desk while the secretaries cheer us on.” The doors slide open, and Arthur steps in, turns, and rolls his eyes at Francis’s stunned expression. “Oh, for God’s sake. I’m _kidding._ Why, is that another unhealthy habit?”

 _If you have to ask, you know it is._ “It’s a slippery slope.”

“Relax, Bonnefoy.” The elevator dings, releases them only one floor higher. Francis wonders if it would be better for Arthur to take the stairs, or if that much physical activity would have him clutching his knees, unable to catch his breath. Slippery slope, indeed. “Densen is just like you, a flirt.”

Francis’s face contorts. “He is not just like me.”

“No? You’re two sides of the same coin, then. He stomps and you tiptoe, but both of you still think you have life all figured out. And both of you wouldn’t know what to do with yourselves if you didn’t have Omegas to pester.”

Through that rather defeating speech, Francis wonders how Arthur can be so aware of other people but so unaware of himself. _Well,_ says a cynical voice that used to mock him for growing out his hair when his father nagged him to cut it, _you’ve managed it for years, haven’t you?_

Arthur yanks him out of his thoughts by opening one of the doors in this endless wood-paneled hallway. He lets Francis step in first—not to be polite, Francis knows by now, just because chivalry dictates the Alpha opens the door for the Omega—so Francis takes in a space larger than his shared DDA office, a desk nicer and bigger than his own, an expensive-looking leather swivel chair, two large seats opposite the desk, and—hallelujah—a leather couch sitting beneath a spotless window. Francis counts four potted plants of nondescript variety and one tiny cactus.

“Why is your office homier than your actual home?” Francis asks, dropping onto the couch.

From a drawer of his desk, Arthur withdraws an electric kettle and a bottle of water. He pours the water into the kettle, sets the kettle on his desk, plugs it in, and sets it to boil. “Because,” he replies, sitting down and reclining his chair slightly, “this is where I live.”

Francis shakes his head slowly. “You’re the lawyer who stacks up the billable hours, aren’t you?”

“Densen claims I had the most last year.” Arthur opens his laptop, removes some papers from his briefcase. “Which I sort of doubt, given the lost week every month. But it’s all pooled and distributed. To hear him tell it, I paid everyone’s rent.”

“Mmhm.” Francis’s eyes keep going to Arthur’s hands, small and deft but reddened at the knuckles—chapped, probably painfully so, by the cold air. Antonio always gets ashy in the winter; Francis has given him the same coconut oil moisturizer for six Christmases, because he adores the stuff. _Will he have to get it for himself, this Christmas?_ He disposes of the thought. _I’ll get some for Arthur. Or maybe he’d like the mint kind better . . ._

“What are you staring at?”

Francis shifts his gaze to the cactus sitting on a corner of the great desk. “Your little friend.”

Arthur glances at the cactus, then gingerly pats it. “Yes, my trusty assistant. He helps me make phone calls.”

Francis smiles, more from the sudden fanciful tone than anything. “Phone calls?”

“Yes. If I ever start sounding too friendly, I look at my cactus and remember to be a prick.”

Perhaps he’s losing his mind, but Francis laughs so hard at that he has to wipe tears from his eyes.

“Oi,” Arthur says, pausing in pouring water into his mug. “No crying in my office.”

“Sorry.” Francis lies down on the couch, still smiling as his hair whispers against the leather. “I’m actually in a good mood now. Merci.”

“Bloody hell, mark the calendar.”

Francis lifts an arm to cover his face as more laughter bubbles up. “I must be delirious.”

“Yours is nice, too.”

Francis pushes up onto his elbows, startled by the non sequitur. “What?”

Arthur is shuffling his papers, but glances over when Francis speaks. “You said I have a nice laugh, did you not?” He looks away again, back to his important shuffling. “Well, yours is nice, too. Stop looking at me, I can feel your French eyes on me. No lingering looks in my office, either.”

Francis lies back down, face turned away so Arthur can’t see his smile.

* * *

Francis lets Arthur work without interruption—he busies himself looking up sexual assault statistics on his phone, which is not conducive to maintaining a good mood but neither is utter boredom and uselessness—until lunchtime, when his stomach grumbles so loudly both of them look up to acknowledge the volume. Then, before either can speak, a knock at the door provides further distraction.

“Come in,” Arthur says, spinning his chair to face the door.

His secretary—Emil, Francis thinks his name is—pokes his head in. “Hi. A few of us are about to go to lunch, and we were wondering if you wanted to come.”

Arthur’s expression closes off as if this was harassment rather than a friendly invitation. “Sorry, can’t. I’m babysitting.”

Emil glances at Francis. “We’re just going across the street—”

“Thanks but no thanks.” Arthur turns back to his work. “Very busy.”

A bit of the light leaves Emil’s eyes, but he nods and retreats without protest.

Francis stands, walks to the desk. “I would have stayed put while you went.”

Arthur’s mouth is a thin line. “Do you see other lawyers eating with secretaries? Do you eat lunch with _your_ secretary?”

“Well, no, but—”

“But _what_?” Arthur turns to him sharply, more anger than Francis expected flaring in his eyes.

Francis knows what Arthur wants him to say, so instead he asks, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but do you have any Omega friends?”

Arthur scowls at his tea. “Don’t take this the wrong way. I have no friends, period.”

Francis can’t help but think of that artsy Alpha doodling in the margins while everyone else had fun inside the lines. “Let’s go get lunch.”

“I’d rather just have tea.”

“I had an apple, and I’m hungry. I know you must be. Let’s go. Let’s go to the bakery in town. Their muffins are scrumptious. You have to try one before you die.”

“That leaves me at least ten years. I’ll do it later.”

“Kirkland.”

“I’m not driving thirty minutes to get a muffin! It’s a waste of a break.”

“Well, how were you going to spend it?”

“. . . Working.”

“Then your break is wasted either way.” Francis steps behind him to turn the chair so Arthur is again facing the door. “Get up, or I’ll push this chair out to your car. _And_ I’ll drive.”

“ _I_ will drive, or neither of us will live to eat the fucking muffins.”

Despite the snarling, Francis still smiles, triumphant.

* * *

The bakery is Francis’s favorite part of town.

Warm, yeasty air greets him when they walk in. The scent of icing sugar follows, wafting from cookies and the world’s sweetest sweet rolls. Everything is soft, golden. Wooden shelves are lined with families of bread: loaves, buns, baguettes. Flour on the floor makes him feel as though he’s gliding, like time has become as slow as the molasses they use to make brown bread. Francis could stand in here for hours; every time he comes in, he imagines a different path, a life spent feeding others with the best his oven has to offer. He has worked in the food service industry, but only as a waiter. A restaurant kitchen would be far too stressful, but a bakery wouldn’t be so bad.

He lets himself think of it: disbarment, imprisonment, abandoning his life here and moving to another state, or Canada, or even to France, not that his extended family would consider harboring an ex-con while he got back on his feet. Scraping together money to buy himself a little place. Kneading dough through the night. He wonders if he could actually do it, or if he would be emotionally destroyed long before then.

He pushes that shadowy fantasy far, far away. No dark thoughts like that in this vanilla-scented haven. He wants to inspect the yellow cakes and berry tarts kept under the glass counter like precious jewels, but the baker’s Omega pup is working out front this afternoon and he eyes Francis with palpable fright. Three days ago, he and Francis laughed over their worst failed attempts at baking bread from scratch. Now, he is the enemy. _Maybe this wasn’t a good idea._

He’s about to suggest they take their leave when he sees Arthur. The English Omega is standing between two shelves, holding a scone and giving it an experimental sniff. The awed look on his face has a light smile pulling on Francis’s lips.

“This is a scone,” Arthur says, as if he thought it might be a bicycle instead.

Francis inspects it. “Oui. That is definitely a scone.”

“But. It’s an actual scone. Not the rubbish American kind.”

“Where have you been trying to get scones? No, let me guess. A coffee chain drive-through?”

Arthur frowns. “I don’t have time—”

“—to go in places. I wouldn’t have time, either, if I worked during my free time.” Francis raises a _tell me I’m in the wrong here_ eyebrow, and he’s pleased to watch Arthur simply turn to pick up another scone with his empty hand. “Fast usually doesn’t mean good.”

“Ninety percent of the sex I’ve had has been fast and good,” Arthur remarks.

Francis can’t help but be curious about the remaining ten. “But wouldn’t it have been better if it lasted longer?”

Arthur contemplates the scones in his hands as if weighing his options, but before he can decide on a response, the bell over the door rings to announce entry and a loud, confident voice not unlike Mikkel Densen’s says, “Well good God, the British invaded again.”

Arthur closes his eyes and says through a sigh, “I hate small towns.”

Another Alpha walks up to stand with them, all of him exuding brightness: blue eyes, blond hair, golden complexion, shiny white teeth. He winks at Francis like he knows him and addresses Arthur. “You do know this place is for food and happiness, right? I thought you’d sworn off those.”

Francis stares at them, how comfortably close they stand even with Arthur’s apparent disgruntlement. Perhaps he misread Arthur’s situation. “Are you two . . . ?”

Arthur’s eyes nearly roll back in his head. “Don’t even go there.”

The Alpha’s face lights up with a grin. “No, go ahead, what were you gonna ask?”

Francis is pretty sure he knows the answer now but he obliges. “Exes?”

The Alpha bursts out laughing and throws an arm around Arthur. “Nah, the strong independent Omega doesn’t wanna be tied down. Well, not like that, anyway.” He sniffs at Arthur, indifferent to his squirming, and his grin widens to poke a pair of dimples. “Still wearing that cologne, huh? Good stuff.”

“Are you joking?” Francis asks, because that really is the most alarming thing out of all this.

Arthur finally frees himself from the American Alpha’s grasp and says huffily, “Mr. Alfred Jones is my private detective, who I will thank to keep his hands to himself.”

Alfred had turned to admire the sweet rolls, but he smirks over his shoulder. “I love the way you claim me. Makes me feel all needed.”

Arthur ignores him. “And as much as I hate to think of him being gainfully employed, I’m afraid I have to ask you to do some digging for me, Alfred. Do you _have_ enough in your arms?”

This last is because Alfred is trying to make a jelly donut balance on top of a loaf of brown bread, two sweet rolls, and a blueberry bagel. “Listen,” he says affably, licking powder off his fingers, “detectiving is hungry work. Lawyers just suck the soul energy out of their victims, so you don’t know what hunger is.”

“It’s just defense attorneys who do that,” Francis points out, and is disproportionately pleased to receive another chummy wink from Alfred.

Arthur opens his mouth to protest, but stops when Alfred rests his free hand on his shoulder. Both Arthur and Francis follow the abruptly shrewd gaze to the big front window, where they catch a glimpse of Gilbert and Antonio walking up to the door. “How about I pay for all this and we go someplace private?” Alfred asks, with the same cordial tone that seems even more serious with that protective look to his eyes. So Arthur and Francis hand over their scones and muffins just as the bell rings; they turn again to see Gilbert and Antonio hesitating in the doorway, both Alphas avoiding Francis’s gaze.

Alfred’s proud, easy voice breaks the spell: “Afternoon, boys. Brisk out there, huh? Makes a man miss Florida, and that’s saying something. Did you catch the game last night? I don’t know why the ref even showed up.”

Francis and Arthur make their escape, hiding in the warmth of Arthur’s car. Eventually Alfred joins them, dropping into the backseat with a big paper bag in his lap. He leans between the front seats, half of his donut already in his mouth. “How’d ya get the fender bender, Art?”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Arthur chides, pulling away from the bakery.

Alfred swallows, amused. “That’s not what you said last night.”

 _You wouldn’t believe what happened last night,_ Francis thinks. But then again, maybe he would. He assumes Alfred has known Arthur a lot longer than he has. Inexplicably, he almost feels jealous of the history. _I must be getting cabin fever. Or Stockholm syndrome._

“Sod off,” Arthur says, with an air of going through the motions.

“You can’t just leave me an opening like that.”

“Mm. Where are you parked?”

“Elementary school.”

“Why in God’s name are you parked all the way over there?”

“Would you believe, they called me in to talk gun safety. Don’t shoot people, kids!” Alfred finishes off the other half of his donut. “I was getting my constitutional, walking to and fro, y’see. Doc said I should do more cardio.” He gives Francis a friendly glance. “You’re awful calm, for somebody they’re organizing a witch hunt for.”

Francis’s eyes bulge, and Arthur cuts in, “Don’t say those things, he has a delicate French disposition.”

“Oh, sorry, dude. Not really a witch hunt,” Alfred says, more kindly. “Just sharpening pitch forks. The usual upset you’d get from something like this in a small town, but the reverend has a built-in soapbox so of course he’s gonna use it to drag your name through the mud.”

Francis is taken aback by all of Alfred Jones, but this part in particular. “So you’re on my side?”

“Well, sure.” Alfred smiles, sugar clinging to the corners of his mouth. “Somebody has to be.”

“Listening ears, Jones,” Arthur says, and gives a breakdown of everything he knows about the case so far, from the amnesia to the new suspicion of Feliciano’s claims. “What do you think?”

“I think Omegas don’t lie about being raped,” Alfred says, words muffled by his first bite of his second sweet roll. “The exam is an hour of hell. Not worth a false accusation. If you’re willing to go through that, either you were raped and you want justice from the Alpha who did it . . . or you’re at rock bottom and ruining somebody else’s life is the only way out.”

“Do tell,” Arthur says.

“Well, I remember hearing about a case like that in New York. This Omega was a prostitute, no place to live, no family, nothing. It was the middle of winter, so he got an Alpha to take him home, they had sex, and I guess that Omega must’ve looked around the apartment and thought he’d like a slice of it. So he tore himself up and claimed the Alpha raped him. Poor bastard did six years before they retried him and found him innocent.”

Francis can’t help but sympathize with both parties in that story, and suffer in sympathy of the hell it must have been for that Alpha in prison, but Arthur doesn’t seem to be interested in feelings; instead, he cuts straight to the facts: “What made them reopen the case?”

“Multiple factors. The Alpha didn’t have the skin cells under his nails to match the scratches the Omega had, neighbors didn’t hear any of the alleged screaming for help, that sort of thing.”

“I’ll look into that,” Arthur murmurs, mostly to himself.

Francis looks at Alfred. “But Feliciano isn’t at rock bottom. He has a wonderful life. Or—he did.”

“Appearances can be deceiving. He’s adopted, right? And he goes to church?” Alfred swallows the last trace of sweet roll. “Those are two red flags, right there. God knows how many demons he could have.”

“Exactly,” Arthur says as they turn into the school parking lot. “I want you to check the church. See what you can find without ruffling any holy robes.”

“Well, it’s Sunday tomorrow, right?” Alfred beams. “I’ll go in for my first service.”

Arthur twists in his seat to look at him. “Try not to catch fire.”

Alfred nods, solemn. “Remember me as I was.”

Arthur arches an eyebrow. “On the way to type two diabetes?”

Alfred puts a hand over his heart, looking deeply wounded.

Arthur smirks. “You can’t just leave me an opening like that.”

“I thought defense attorneys were supposed to avoid victim blaming.”

“Get to work. And give us our food.”

“Right back at ya, baby,” Alfred says, then drops two scones into Arthur’s lap, gives Francis his muffins and a wink of farewell, and trots off to his car.

Francis can feel that he’s smiling. “I thought you said you didn’t have friends.”

Arthur leans to get a napkin from the dash, wraps his scones in it. “Jones is a colleague.”

“You’re an entirely different person with him than you are with your actual colleagues at the firm.”

Arthur shrugs. “I’m his boss. I can be whatever I want to be, with him.”

That, Francis thinks, is why he feels jealous. “Did that ever involve getting into bed with him?”

Arthur’s eyes narrow. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no.”

Francis takes his time to unwrap his muffin. “He seemed sort of interested.”

The English Omega’s scoff has Francis looking up at his incredulous expression. “For someone who flirts so much, you’re awfully dense.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Arthur picks up the other muffin. “Alfred is gay.”

“. . . Oh.” All three of the winks recontextualize without needing to, and he realizes that’s why Alfred likes that horrible cologne. He’s brought back to the first month after answering Antonio’s _Roommate Wanted_ ad, a breezeless July afternoon lounging shirtless because their apartment was too cheap to have air conditioning. _Sometimes I wonder if I even need an Omega,_ Antonio had said halfway through the six-pack. When Francis asked what he meant, Antonio had smiled lazily at him. _Well, if Alphas can be as pretty as you, I might as well just stick with what I know, right?_

They’d kissed, that night, several times in quick succession. It hadn’t been _bad_ , as far as Francis was concerned, but in the end Antonio had realized it wasn’t what he wanted. Francis didn’t think it was what he wanted, either, but it was nice to be the most beautiful thing in someone’s life, for however brief a time. He’s always claimed the old standby: _If I fall in love with an Alpha, I won’t have a problem with it._ It’s legal now, as of a few years ago, for same-sex couples to pair-bond. But that doesn’t mean the church supports it. Quite the opposite, in most cases. _Maybe Feliciano is gay,_ Francis thinks. _But what does that have to do with me?_

“Like attracts like,” Arthur is saying as he nibbles at his muffin. “Strange attracts strange. Jones is an Alpha who wants to be mounted and I’m an Omega who wants to fuck without strings.”

Francis breaks off a piece of his own muffin but doesn’t eat it. “And I’m an Alpha everyone thinks is dangerous to Omegas.”

“There.” Arthur knocks their muffins together in silent cheers. “Join our merry band of freaks.”

* * *

Back at the office, Arthur sets to work digging up all the info he can get on the case Alfred mentioned and others like it. Francis starts toward the couch, but pivots to the desk. “I could help you. It’s less work, with two sets of eyes.”

In fact, it isn’t; Arthur can read it himself, or he can be told about it after Francis reads it, and he sees no reason in such a middle man. “I don’t do group projects, if I can help it.”

Francis doesn’t look surprised. “Toni and I bounce ideas off each other all the time. It helps,” he insists, leaning over the desk as if he can read any of Arthur’s papers upside-down. His hair falls down round his face, dangling right in front of Arthur. He imagines wrapping a wavy lock round his thumb. He imagines grabbing a fistful of the stuff to hold Francis’s head in place as he—

“Personal space,” Arthur reminds him, blowing a pointed gust of air at Francis’s hair to make the golden strands sway and dance.

Francis straightens up. “Not every case has the advantage of having two lawyers involved.”

 _Disadvantage,_ Arthur thinks. “As heartwarming an image as that paints, I’d prefer to do this myself.”

He’d thought this was just more of the healthy alternatives nonsense, but Francis’s face actually crinkles a little, like he’s personally offended. Arthur recalls the last time he let rejection cut him that deep, before he learned to create a shield around himself, a layer of quills that no one would dare try to hurt him through, lest they be hurt even worse. But there’s a downside to being such a sharp weapon; kind touches are just as likely to draw blood, even more likely if they’re soft, loving, unguarded. Unexpected guilt sneaks in, twisting round the muffin and scone in his stomach. He watches Francis turn away and opens his mouth, the words climbing slowly up his throat: _I’m sorry._

Then he hears the French Alpha mutter, “Strong independent Omegas can still make mistakes.”

Arthur goes very still, tense enough that his chest aches as if in warning. He reaches into the topmost drawer of his desk, removes a few coins from the collection of change he’s amassed, and slaps it down on top of the desk so hard Francis turns in alarm. With one sharp movement, Arthur slides the money across to Francis, who winces at the grating sound of metal against wood. His words drip acid, sweet and rotten. “Why don’t you go entertain yourself with the vending machine?”

Francis looks down at the paltry offering—and the even more distasteful message that he is but a juvenile nuisance—before plucking up the coins, one by one. “What does a prestigious law firm have a vending machine for?”

“Some clients bring their pups. You think Omegas accused of shooting abusive mates in their sleep have babysitters?”

Francis can listen to no more. He leaves the office, lets the door close just shy of a slam in his wake. _Violating bail conditions. Maybe Kirkland and I will share a cell._ He strides down the hall, past the elevator, without any idea where he’s going or where the elusive vending machine might be. He doesn’t fully lose his composure, because any of these doors could open at any time. But when he reaches a stairwell he closes his eyes and takes a moment to just breathe. He loathes anger. He would rather feel any other emotion over anger. He isn’t an angry Alpha, not like his sire. _Why are you crying? They wouldn’t tease you if you just stood up for yourself._

Back and forth he goes with Arthur. Just when he thinks they’re on solid ground, Arthur shoves him over a crumbling cliff. Why? Why can’t Arthur just be _nice_ to him? Francis tries to think back to when they first met. Antonio had faced Arthur first, so he’d prefaced the interaction with _He’s trying to prove himself, so watch out._ Francis hadn’t understood why that could translate to a bad thing, until he experienced Arthur’s willingness to do anything to get an acquittal. _He’s a savage,_ he’d told Antonio afterward. Arthur had manipulated him from the start, smiling and politely shaking his hand. _Hi, I’m Arthur Kirkland. Francis Bonnefoy, right? Good luck in there._ All of it had been designed to put the mentality into Francis’s head: _Oh, he’s not so bad. And he’s only an Omega, maybe I should go easy on him._ The second he let his guard down, Arthur struck half his best points as hearsay, acquitted his client, and strutted off brushing invisible dust from his shoulder while Francis was left reeling at the prosecution table. Antonio had smiled sympathetically. _I know._ _He did the same thing to me._

Why does Arthur consider it a loss on his part, being friendly? He’s only himself around Alfred, who he employs . . . is it rejection, then? Is he avoiding potential abandonment by boycotting intimacy altogether? _Sex doesn’t mean anything to me._ Because if it did, Francis realizes, that would leave him vulnerable. The truth bitters Francis’s mouth. After growing up longing for connection, to watch someone else actively deny it is salt in an old, old wound.

 _But he can’t keep himself separate forever,_ Francis thinks. _He needs support, even if he doesn’t want it. He deserves help, so I’ll try to give it to him._

Because for all Arthur’s claims of not being a nice person, he’s still putting his reliability on the line, not to mention his own safety, by agreeing to supervise Francis—which, Francis doesn’t doubt, gives him infinitely more freedom than some court-appointed supervision officer would. And, most importantly, he believes Francis is innocent even when Francis himself isn’t certain.

Francis sighs and turns back around, starting down the symmetrical hallway.

“. . . of little faith.”

He freezes, listening to the snatch of conversation drifting down through the stairwell. Densen’s voice. Silently, he backtracks a few steps and leans over the railing, head tilted.

“. . . judge? Oxenstierna.”

“Fuck. Is his kid an Alpha or Omega? . . . doesn’t matter much. But he’s fair, just a tough bastard to break.”

“Arthur shouldn’t need to break him.”

“This case? He should break them all. . . . be a slaughterhouse, after I was done with it.”

“Why didn’t you take it, then?”

“Because I don’t want that on my record. This case is fucked, I’m telling you.”

“Any case is possible to acquit. There are just bad odds. But if he can . . . he has my vote for partner.”

Francis steps back. _Oh._ Of course, it’s not as though he had any way of knowing the stakes, the pressure Arthur is under, but now that he does—it’s easier to understand why he would want to shoulder the burden wholly himself. If he earns the promotion, it will be Arthur who earns it, no one else. _It’s only fair, that way,_ Francis thinks, and surprises himself.

So Arthur Kirkland has morals, after all.

* * *

Arthur’s mood has reset to more or less neutral by the time they get home, and after an hour of working to the background noise of Francis’s graceful meal preparation—he’s humming while he chops and stirs, a tune Arthur doesn’t recognize—he’s actually feeling quite light. Not quite happy, but able to breathe.

He wonders if Francis thinks him overly emotional. Not that most Omegas are seen as snappy, but some get that way pre- and post-heat. _You know how Omegas are, with their hormones._ Just another part of Omega biology that gives Alphas power over them, even just in the social sense. _Someone’s gonna be in heat soon!_ It’s infuriating, a dehumanizing and self-fulfilling prophecy, because what Omega wouldn’t then get pissed off at whoever made such a comment?

Anyway, Arthur knows his own moods have nothing to do with hormones. Nothing to do with his medication, either. _Alpha blockers_ , they’re called, which his doctor had a good laugh about. _Let’s hope not, huh?_ As if pills would be the thing to keep Alphas away, not the hundred other things Arthur did—purposefully and otherwise—to be undesirable. _Fainting, headache, pounding heart, weakness, dizziness, weight gain._ That’s the list of side effects he was told to watch out for. He did faint a few times when he first started the medication. Crumpling back into his chair when he stood up too fast wasn’t much trouble, but Alfred was with him the one time he lost consciousness getting out of his car and he didn’t hear the end of the Victorian jokes for months. In retrospect, he was lucky to wake up in Alfred’s arms rather than alone with his head cracked open on the pavement. He hates, sometimes, how hard it is to be helped.

His internal debate of whether or not to ask Francis for some of his food—which has once again filled the flat with lovely smells Arthur couldn’t begin to name—is a fierce one, even as he steps into the kitchen. Francis smiles briefly at him, pouring two glasses of water. It’s the smile that disarms him; it was so automatic, Arthur has no idea how to respond to it. He turns away to hide his incompetence, which puts him in front of the refrigerator. _You bought them, no sense wasting them._ So he opens the freezer door.

_“Francis.”_

The French Alpha glances over, and his eyes immediately widen in realization as his hand rises to cover a little gasp. “I forgot about that . . .”

Arthur lets the freezer door swing shut and presses his fingertips into his temple. “What did you do with them?”

Francis sucks his lips between his teeth and bends to open the cupboard under the sink.

Arthur observes the garbage bag of wasted money, then his client, offering a guilty smile. Arthur appreciates that he has the good grace to look terrified. But the way Francis stands, head ducked a little, avoiding looking directly at Arthur—he could be a pup, sidling up to his dam to meekly accept punishment for throwing a ball through a window. Arthur _could_ still yell at him and smack him, but that would be going against a fundamental rule: never, ever become his parents.

So he says, “I think you should take that out. The third bin in the parking lot.”

“That’s fair,” Francis agrees, scurrying out with the bag.

When the French Alpha returns, Arthur has eaten half of what’s on Francis’s plate. Neither of them acknowledge it; Francis made enough for two, anyway, so he puts the rest on a new plate and joins Arthur at the little table. They eat in silence, never quite looking at each other. Arthur is leery of eating everything on his plate, even though it’s insufferably delicious. When was the last time he was comfortably full? He doesn’t want to upset his stomach. He doesn’t know how he’ll decide what to leave behind, until a foul texture finds his tongue. He wrinkles his nose and pokes at the other green things on the plate. “What is this?”

Francis swallows before he replies mildly, “You must know what broccoli is.”

“I do know what broccoli is, but it’s hard to recognize it when it’s all deflated and rubbery. What did you do to it?”

Francis’s eyes glint, amused. “I cooked it.”

“Well, I hate it. Never cook it again.”

Francis laughs. “Some people like it better raw. It’s good for you, though. Lots of calcium.”

Arthur wonders how calcium got into something so green. Isn’t it white? Or is he only thinking that because bones are white? He finishes off everything but the broccoli and sits back in his chair. “Well, that was quite . . .”

Francis raises his eyebrows, eagerly waiting, so Arthur finishes, “Edible.”

Francis pouts. “Better or worse than mashed potato and whatever that meat was?”

“It was chicken.”

“If you say so.”

“Yes, it was better. You know it was, no need to gloat.”

Francis scoffs at that, gesturing to Arthur, then himself. “Pot, meet kettle.”

A sharp smile cuts into Arthur’s face, because that’s exactly how he would have responded. What a delightfully dreadful thought, Francis becoming more like Arthur through prolonged exposure. He takes his plate to the sink and fills it up, since it’s his turn to wash. Hopefully they won’t become too similar in the process of Francis growing a spine. He can barely live with himself while there’s only one of him.

* * *

After a few hours of alternating between watching videos on his phone and watching Arthur out of the corner of his eye—he types like a pianist, wrists up and fingers dancing across the keys—Francis grows too bored to sit still. He moves his chair out of the way and sits down cross-legged on the floor, an action so out of the blue Arthur looks up from his laptop. “What are you doing?”

“I’m about to do yoga. It’s good exercise, and good stress relief.” Francis rolls his shoulders back, hands on his knees, and echoes Arthur’s taunt from last night: “Join me.”

The English Omega seems to consider his options, then snaps his laptop shut. He steps past Francis, vanishes into the bedroom, and reappears moments later in an oversize college T-shirt and black leggings. “PMS clothes,” he says simply, lowering himself to the floor.

Francis imagines Arthur curled up in these clothes surrounded by pillows and chocolate, recovering from the ravages of heat. He must get bad cramps, if he takes birth control and has no mate. _No mate, but plenty of partners,_ he thinks. The yoga will do away with such negative thoughts.

“You’re supposed to inhale as you expand and exhale as you contract,” Francis explains. “So we’ll start by inhaling our arms up and looking at the ceiling.”

If Arthur finds his yoga instructor voice as ridiculous as it sounds to Francis’s ears, he doesn’t say so. He doesn’t say a word, just mirrors Francis’s movements as they stretch up, twist round, then fold forward and do it all over again for the other side. Everything is balanced in yoga; what you do to one side, you must do to the other. The predictable equality lulls both of them into calm.

Once they’re warmed up, Francis guides Arthur through Sun Salutation A. He grumbles briefly when downward dog has his shirt riding up, but once he tucks it into the waistband of his leggings he resumes the pose and holds it for five breaths with Francis. When they’re back in mountain, Arthur’s cheeks are pink.

“That wasn’t entirely loathsome,” he remarks, a bit out of breath.

Francis smiles. “You need to work on your flat back pose. You’re arching too much.”

He expects acrimony, but Arthur just quirks an eyebrow. “You do know Omegas tend to arch their backs?”

Now Francis lets some flirtation curl his lips, remembering the club Antonio took him to for his birthday in their second year of law school. Every Omega spine was arched in that place. Skin, skin, skin. And yet, somehow, none of the wide variety of exotic flavors on offer were as delectable as the few inches of pale vanilla Arthur is showing. “I have heard that,” Francis replies. “Let’s try tree.”

Arthur wobbles through the balance poses, stumbling to one side or the other enough times that Francis laughs, which only has him falling, too. _Serves you right._ They compete to see how long they can hold the one-legged poses. Arthur loses with tree but wins with dancer by only a second. Both of them are breathless now, and Arthur has to push hair off his forehead. “Do you meditate, too?”

Francis has to give credit; the English Omega hasn’t flagged or complained, and in fact he has the _what’s next?_ expression of any excited student. “Not often. I always do shavasana, though.”

“What’s that?”

“The final relaxation. We call it corpse pose.”

“Seems pretty morbid for something relaxing.” Arthur watches him cross to the lightswitch. “But I suppose nobody’s more relaxed than a dead person.”

Francis turns off the light. They aren’t in total darkness, but they have eyelids for that. They lie down on their backs, palms up, eyes closed. They go up their bodies, clenching and releasing muscles until they’re completely limp. Then they just breathe, inhaling until their lungs reach maximum capacity, then slowly letting the air back out again.

Francis loses count of the breaths after a while, floating in the darkness. It’s Arthur’s whisper that brings him back to himself: “How long are we supposed to do this?”

Normally, he would be irritated at the disrespect to the peaceful atmosphere, but he must be too relaxed for that. “I’ve done it for half an hour before.”

A groan from the Omega.

“But usually just ten minutes.” He suspects that’s little consolation, and he remembers Gilbert’s main complaint when he tried yoga: _What are you supposed to think about? I got bored after one minute._ Francis knows firsthand that clearing your mind of thought is much easier said than done. So, in a soft voice, he says, “Think about all of your worries. Picture each one in your head. They might feel big, but make them shrink. Squish them into a snowball small enough to fit in the palm of your hand. Gather them up in your arms. You’re inside, in the dark, but turn around. There’s a door, and when you open it, it’s summer outside, warm and bright. Let the snowballs fall down onto the ground. Kick them, jump on them, do whatever you want. It doesn’t matter if you make a mess. Watch the sunlight beam down and melt them until there’s nothing left. Take a big breath in, feeling how easy it is now that you have no pressure on you. Then let all the breath back out. Breathe in, smell all the beautiful flowers. Breathe out . . .”

Francis lets his voice trail into silence after a few minutes, and decides he’ll just do one minute of silent breathing. He doesn’t know how long it’s been specifically, but that doesn’t matter. Once a rough sixty seconds has passed, he says, “Slowly move your hands and feet, then roll to your right side and sit up when you’re ready.”

He sits up, enjoying the pleasantly tired feeling in his muscles. He stands, turns the light on.

Arthur is still lying on his back, head lolled to one side, lips parted. Dead asleep.

Francis doesn’t wake him, just turns off the light again and turns the gentler kitchen light on instead. He gets himself ready for bed even though it’s quite early yet; he rationalizes that he was up ludicrously early for a Saturday morning, so he might as well go to bed early for a Saturday night or he’ll end up overtired. When he comes out of the bathroom, Arthur is sitting up and blinking blearily.

Francis smiles a little at how the sleepy disorientation de-ages the Omega. “Did I wake you?”

“No.” Arthur starts to get up, but pauses when Francis offers a hand. Arthur’s eyes narrow a little and he says, “Only because I’m tired.”

Francis tugs him to his feet. “How do you like yoga?”

“Not bad.” Arthur’s hair is on his forehead again, but he doesn’t move it. “Better than cardio.”

Francis laughs. “Finally, something we agree on.”

* * *

Though Francis waits for it, Arthur’s nightly routine doesn’t come up this time. Arthur still puts the pillow wall between them, but he doesn’t bother clinging to the edge of the mattress. In fact, as soon as his body hits the bed, he’s out like a light.

Francis smiles into the dark and lets the faint sleep-talking sing him to sleep.


	6. Abide With Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DNA processing has been sped up because I’m impatient xo

Alfred is usually an early riser, but he has to admit: he’s not feeling many holy thoughts when he arrives at the church for a 7:30 a.m. service. Shouldn’t it be a little later in the morning? Or in the afternoon, even? It’s the day of rest, after all, and yet here they are, stumbling out of their cars while the sun is still wringing darkness out of the sky. Alfred suspects his slight grouchiness—he never goes full grouch, except when he’s hangry—is caused more by the concept of going to church itself, rather than the time of day he’s doing it. He did go to Sunday school, as a pup, but once he was old enough to argue he stopped going to church. Luckily his parents embrace the _turn the other cheek_ aspect of religion, so it wasn’t too much of an issue—that is, until he came out to them. To be fair, he probably should’ve done it by sitting them down and explaining things rather than the method he went with: _This is my prom date, Nathan. Okay bye!_ That had been a fiasco when he got home the next morning, least of all because he was hungover and threw up the half-dozen cupcakes he’d binged the night before. He’s been more or less disowned, which is fine. He prefers the sort of family you choose, anyway.

The church is old enough that the tourist bureau employs a teenager every summer to lead folks with nothing better to do through the pews, describing how this war and that event relate to the stained glass and carved arches. Alfred actually listened to it once—between Arthur’s edicts and miscellaneous jobs, he often has nothing better to do with himself—but he can’t remember any of it. He wonders if any of the people filing in with him know the stories by heart, or if they just come here because it’s what they’ve always done, a notch worn well into the rut of their lives.

Before the service begins, after the pups are herded down into the basement for Sunday school, people gather in the nave. Some sit quietly in their pews, heads bowed over scripture, but most of the Alphas stay standing, huddled together as if against the cold. Alfred sits down nearby, so he can hear the rise and fall of the murmurs: _the poor child . . . bless him . . . can’t imagine . . . monster . . ._ Alfred glances over to the Omega side of the room. The poor child is here, sitting beside his brother on the end of the frontmost pew. Feliciano has his head down, and Lovino shakes his head at all passersby who stop to offer condolence. Alfred slips a tiny notepad from his coat and writes _BROTHER SHIELD._

From his perch in the loft, the organist begins to play. Everyone scuttles to their places, and those already seated rise as Roma Vargas steps out in his somber vestments. Alfred has always held a certain respect for the reverend, because it’s difficult not to: he’s just so helpful and supportive to the community, always volunteering and donating. And, what Alfred likes most about him, he’s not the stereotypical WASP priest you’d see in a movie. He’s Italian and, even if he’s lost the more distinctive cadence of his accent, it still shows in his olive skin and dark curls (which are holding on valiantly to their chestnut luster, even if it has a tinge of silver too). If things were different—a _lot_ different, mind you—he’d be Alfred’s type.

Roma’s Sunday services are typically upbeat affairs, but not today. The starting hymn is slow and mournful, and the echo of the congregation’s collective voice actually has a shiver working its way down Alfred’s spine. He keeps his eyes down, pretending to be reading the lyrics. He finds himself wondering if Arthur would be moved by all this. _Probably not,_ he thinks. _Probably he’d just be thinking about tax evasion and homophobia._ And, of course, Alfred is too. But still, the song—not the words, he’s barely listening to them, but the sorrow and togetherness of it—feels like warm arms being wrapped around him.

And then the hymn ends, they sit down in unison, and Roma begins his sermon. Roma might have looks going for him, and more charisma than most people will ever have, but Alfred still finds himself drifting in and out of attentiveness. Roma is talking about being kind to each other, do unto others, all the good stuff you’d put on a Christmas card—but all the while, Alfred can only think of the protests he watched on the news when same-sex pair-bonding was legalized, pastors shouting about Alphas with limp wrists and labeling sodomy a capital crime. This is why he’s not religious; call it cherry-picking, but no matter how much good there might be, he still feels cast out by the bad.

“. . . as beloved children,” Roma is reciting. “But sexual immorality and all impurity or covetousness must not even be named among you, as is proper among saints. Let there be no filthiness nor foolish talk nor crude joking, which are out of place, but instead let there be thanksgiving. For you may be sure of this, that everyone who is sexually immoral or impure, or who is covetous, has no inheritance in the kingdom of God.”

 _That’s me._ Alfred glances over at the Omega side again. _And Feliciano?_ Both Omegas have their heads inclined now; most of the Omegas do, actually, while the Alphas gaze up at the reverend intently. He’s not sure how religion views rape victims, though he has a feeling it’s not in a very positive light. But, as far as he knows, Roma Vargas isn’t a fundamentalist. There’ve been no anti-gay upsets at his church, no publicity at all aside from Christmas fundraisers for impoverished families. He’s just a small-town reverend, preaching solemnly after tragedy struck not only his community but his family.

Put that way, it’s hard not to feel bad for the guy. But Alfred knows why Arthur wanted him to come here. Short of breaking into the parsonage, this is the best way to size Roma up. He might not be a suspect in the actual case, but he is for Arthur’s argument. Alfred’s not sure what he’ll see—nothing, probably, until the end of the sermon, when Roma talks to his adopted kids. Which means he might as well make himself useful in the meantime.

“. . . Alphas are the protectors of Omegas as God is the protector of all of us. Alphas must respect their mates, just as Omegas must respect their mates. We must be balanced, and give ourselves to our mates, to avoid external temptation and the evils of indulgence . . .”

 _Wait, they actually want us to have sex?_ Alfred’s interest is captured.

“. . . into adultery, or so-called _alternative lifestyles_ . . .”

And on that note, Alfred takes his leave. He stands up and shuffles to the edge of the room furtively. He feels several disapproving gazes find him—one does not simply stand up and walk out during a sermon—but he ignores them and walks out of the room. He glances into the chapel—golden but stuffy, empty of people and evidence—then heads downstairs. The underside of the church is definitely less pretty than the topside, but at least the musty smell of the pew cushions isn’t as thick down here. He opens the first of the closed doors and gives a surprised smile when he finds twenty youthful faces peering up at him.

“Uh,” he says, with a little wave to the pups, “sorry to interrupt.”

The teacher, an Omega older than Roma, smiles from his rocking chair. “Are you looking for the washroom?”

He gives him a sheepish nod, and the teacher says, “Two doors down. It’s across from the boiler room, there’s writing on it.”

Alfred doesn’t mind the redundancy of the instruction because he’s too busy enjoying the molasses of the Omega’s drawl. “Thanks,” he says, then waves again to the pups and grins when several return the gesture. He closes the door again and heads down the hall. Both the washroom and the boiler room have writing on their doors, as promised. He checks both of them, finds nothing. The hallway continues farther than he previously thought, and he finds himself in what must be Roma’s office. Bookshelf full of religious and self-help texts (Alfred wonders if that counts as an oxymoron or not), low-backed chairs, a polished desk, the works. He keeps the door open as he looks around, because he’s been through this rodeo before: because there are no signs declaring this room private, this doesn’t strictly count as trespassing, but rifling through a desk can’t be danced around with an _I got lost_ excuse. An open door means he just wandered in, a closed door means he has something to hide. With his ears pricked for footsteps, he searches.

Once, when they were bemoaning the downsides of employment over an unsympathetic bottle of scotch, Arthur asked him what the hardest part of his job is. _Well,_ Alfred replied, _have you ever tried looking for something that you don’t know what it is?_ It’s a good point, grammar notwithstanding. At least Gilbert Beilschmidt knows he needs prints, blood, human traces. What is Alfred going to find that proves Francis Bonnefoy innocent? A note saying _To whom it may concern, Feliciano wasn’t assaulted in a ditch_?

The office proves useless. He checks the room next to it and finds a much smaller space, just enough room for a cot and a little desk, the singular drawer of which contains only a cheap ballpoint pen. Alfred turns to go, but pauses. He sniffs the air. Faintly, faint enough that it’s probably at least a month old, he smells it—musk. Not heady heat-scent, but Alpha musk, something that would agitate most Alphas, though of course Alfred doesn’t mind it. It’s not a scent from anyone Alfred recognizes, though. He takes out his notepad. _ALPHA SCENT PRIVATE ROOM._

He’s out of rooms, so he goes back upstairs to rejoin the service. Roma’s sermon is over and two Alphas are making their way down the pews, passing out little cubes of bread and tiny cups of juice. When one of the servers stops in front of Alfred, he offers half a smile. “Oh, I’m not really religious.”

To his surprise, the Alpha gives him the same gentle smile as the Sunday school teacher. “But you’re here now.”

So Alfred takes communion, for the first and last time. He wonders if this counts as some sort of betrayal. He knows some gay folks in the city who would never step foot in a church, let alone take part in something like communion. But he doesn’t feel like he’s going to simultaneously combust or start rioting in favor of conversion camps. He just feels sort of . . . underwhelmed. Shouldn’t there be lightning or something?

There’s a few more hymns, a final prayer, and then they’re all up, drifting to a room he sure as hell didn’t notice before, lined with food-laden tables. Sandwiches, sandwiches as far as the eye can see!

“How are they?”

Alfred turns to see the teacher standing beside him, eyes bright with amusement. He swallows and smiles. “Good stuff. I can’t remember having a finer egg sandwich.”

He laughs. “Why, thanks. My grandam’s specialty, passed on to me.”

“You got a gift, that’s for sure.” Alfred steps out of the way of some sandwich hunters, hovering a hand over the Omega’s waist to gently herd him aside. “You been working here a long time?”

The teacher nods. “Since my mate passed.”

He doesn’t say it with any sadness, so Alfred doesn’t bother with apology. He tips his head back to take in the rafters, high above. He wonders if anybody bothers to go up there and dust. “This is quite the place, huh?”

“Oh, it’s beautiful at sunset, when the sun comes through the glass.”

“I bet it’s kinda spooky at night, with the lights off and all,” Alfred says, quiet in case this is sacrilegious or something. “It’s always a dark church in the ghost movies, right?”

The Omega giggles (Alfred grins, because he is a firm believer that you can never be too old to giggle) and replies, “Well, I wouldn’t know. I’ve only been here during the day.”

Alfred nods, taking another bite of sandwich and making sure not to talk with his mouth full, for once. “Does anybody ever sleep here? Like, the reverend?”

“Sometimes he does, but not very often. The only people I know of who stay in the church overnight are visiting priests and curates.”

He makes mental note of that, so he’ll remember to add it to his notepad. He considers the musk in that little room, then does away with the thought. Most clergy are old Alphas who can’t mate or drink; if he lived that life, Alfred would jerk off in a church, too, just to maintain sanity. Besides, can’t priests just absolve themselves for that sort of thing? _Did Roma absolve himself?_

Some old Omegas are waiting to speak with the teacher, so Alfred gives him one last smile then walks off, making his way through the parishioners. A few recognize him, so his journey lags with small talk. He does a full circle of the room, but he sees no Vargases. He returns to the nave. Roma is at the far end of the room, talking to a group of Alphas in such hushed tones Alfred knows it’s about Francis. Alfred trails his gaze over the room, finds Feliciano and Lovino where he last saw them, on the end of the pew.

It wouldn’t be impossible to form an excuse to linger so he can see if Roma does anything incriminating, but he knows there’s no point. Almost an instinctive feeling, a detective’s intuition perhaps. Any secrets here won’t be uncovered today. He might as well head out.

 _Oh well._ At least he got sandwiches out of it.

* * *

“Papa! Isi! Get up!”

There’s no need for an alarm clock now that Peter has turned five. Every morning, regardless if there’s no work or school to go to, Peter runs into his parents’ bedroom and hurls himself onto the bed like any excited pup. Berwald usually doesn’t mind it, except when—

Peter crawls onto his father’s back, little knees digging into the Swedish Alpha’s spine.

At his mate’s pained grunt, Tino sits up and pulls Peter into his lap. “What have we told you about Papa’s back, nappi?”

Peter wriggles around, pink lips parting to reveal a gap-toothed grin brighter than the sunrise fighting through the curtains. “Sorry, Papa.”

Berwald knows he isn’t actually apologetic, but he doesn’t stress repentance so much yet. His sire did that, and he suspects it contributed to a sense of abbreviation concerning his childhood. He also suspects it’s an old tradition that’s been cycling through Oxenstierna Alphas, and he’s decided to raise Peter as differently from how he was raised as possible—without letting him run completely wild and drive Tino to drink, of course.

“Go sit at the table, okay?” Tino says, nuzzling Peter’s cheek, a strawberry swell still soft with puppy fat. “We’ll be right there.”

Peter prances off, wee feet pattering across the floor. He’s still small enough that running everywhere is not only a possibility but a necessity; Berwald misses the portion of his life when a sprint was a joy and not something a personal trainer hounds him to do twice a week.

“Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, as always,” Tino says, smiling, happy to be helpless against the charms of the best thing they’ve ever made together.

Berwald kisses Tino, presses his face into the sweet crook of his neck for a moment, and rumbles with fondness for his mate and his pup. He does miss lazy Sunday mornings spent cuddling and kissing, but they’ve been replaced with gathering at the table, helping Peter read through the comics in the back of the newspaper, twining Tino’s fingers with his own on one hand while he forks food with the other. When it’s a trade like that, the gains are worth the losses.

Up they get. Tino makes them waffles, and Peter hoists the newspaper only to have the sections fall apart and litter the floor. “Oops!”

“I’ll get it,” Berwald says, crouching to collect the paper. His eyes skim without any intent and catch on a headline about sexual assault in a small town he frequents as part of his circuit as judge. He stands, reading the small block of text. The victim is a minor and thus unnamed; the accused is Francis Bonnefoy, DDA. Berwald can picture him without difficulty. He’s a good lawyer, if a bit naive, and the only one Berwald knows who insists on having long hair. That hair was the most remarkable thing about him, until _this._ The trial is in December, when he’s scheduled to be in that courthouse. This will be his mess to sort out. He has to admit, he’s surprised to hear such an allegation against the French Alpha, but he cannot be biased. He can only make a decision based upon the evidence presented to him in court. The best thing to do would be to not think about it, until the trial.

“Oops!” Peter cries again, a common refrain in his days spent with Tino (and, indeed, his days spent in elementary school). He’s dropped the maple syrup bottle and, despite how sticky the stuff is, it quickly spreads over the surface of the table, soaking into the sports section Berwald just set down.

“Don’t touch it, you’ll just get sticky!” Tino hurries to wipe it up, armed with paper towels and damp cloths, familiar weapons of the housedam.

Berwald picks up the bottle and snaps the cap on, amazed at how fast things can change after just one mistake.

* * *

“So, this is good, right?” Antonio asks. “This is solid?”

Gilbert rests his chin on one hand and pulls the papers closer with the other. They’re sitting at Antonio’s coffee table, which has become a patchwork quilt of white paper and black words. Witness statements, evidence reports, statistics. Gilbert has seen most of it already, but having it all in one place is a lot to take in.

“Gil?” Antonio prompts, searching his face.

Gilbert glances at him, then sits back on the couch. “Yeah, it’s good.” Good in the sense that Antonio has a lot to back his argument, not good in the sense that Francis isn’t sitting with them right now or serving them coffee and whatever pastry he’s baking. Then again, eight-fifteen on a Sunday; Francis would probably still be asleep right now. Gilbert hasn’t been able to sleep in since he left his teenage sleep cycle behind. Antonio sleeps easily and wakes easily, but Gilbert can tell he’s exhausted, overtired, wound up by this case. His eyes have that brightness that desperate men get, the frantic shifting from hope to hope.

“The rape kit will be the cherry on top,” Antonio says, and takes a long sip of coffee. “Kirkland doesn’t stand a chance.”

 _Is that how Toni’s coping? Making this about beating Arthur?_ He wants to acknowledge the elephant in the room, but at this point there might as well be a whole herd of pachyderms in the apartment. He chooses a lesser one to start with. “They didn’t find any DNA from Francis on the underwear,” he points out. It hasn’t escaped him that the pertinent report is nowhere to be seen on the table.

Antonio looks at him. Not argumentative, but close. “Does that mean he didn’t touch them?”

“No,” Gilbert replies. He’s had enough fights with Antonio that he knows when the sparks are about to fly. He can’t remember ever fighting with Francis, though. “Not necessarily. It’s just not one hundred percent either way. You can argue he touched them just as easily as Arthur can argue he didn’t.”

“How would they get into his pocket if Francis didn’t put them there?” He scoffs, eyes going a bit squinty, but not with his usual good humor. “It’s not like Feliciano did it.”

“No, I don’t think he did it.”

Antonio stares at him. “What do you think, then?”

Gilbert meets his gaze for just a moment, before they both lower their eyes respectfully. “I don’t know,” he says. “. . . I don’t like it.”

The Spanish Alpha sighs, and the melancholy exhalation tells Gilbert his friend knows which elephant he’s talking about. “I don’t like it, either. But good people do bad things.” He shrugs, swirling his coffee. “And bad people do good things. I don’t know how you figure out who’s good and who’s bad. I guess you have to tally it all up at the end.”

Gilbert thinks about trespassing on Iris House property to see his Matthew. That’s a bad thing, isn’t it? It’s breaking a rule. But a good thing, too, because it makes Matthew happy. When you think about it, it’s just as hard to color an act as good or bad as it is to color a man that way. He used to be able to see things in black and white, but these days his eyes are smeared with endless shades of grey. He’s not sure how Antonio and Francis swing with their philosophy, but he knows neither of them have been called to a crime scene at three a.m. and spent two hours talking an Omega out from under the tainted marital bed because _I think he’s already had enough forced on him tonight, don’t you? He’ll come out when he’s ready._ And he had, once all the other officers left. Gilbert carried him out and made him a nest of shock blankets in the backseat. He still exchanges Christmas cards with that Omega every year, even though they’re three states apart now.

Antonio might be able to see people as a collection of acts, but Gilbert knows that’s only one dimension. To make the measure of a full person, you need intention, too.

“I want to talk to Lovino again,” Gilbert finds himself saying, because this comes out much easier than any of the painful things he could say about the missing member of their trio. “Privately.”

Antonio blinks in surprise, but he doesn’t press for justification. “I’m sure that can be arranged.” He checks his watch. “You can probably catch him at church, actually, if you leave now.”

 _Fitting,_ Gilbert thinks as he bids the Spanish Alpha farewell. _What better place for confession?_

* * *

When Gilbert arrives, people are filing out of the large church doors. Most who notice Gilbert nod or wave to him, and he returns the greetings. Joyful squeals draws his attention to the doorway, where two pups are running out ahead of their parents. The smaller of the pair can’t be more than two, and his little legs aren’t quite up to the challenge of the cement steps. He tumbles, and Gilbert rushes forward just swift enough to catch him. “That was close,” he says, apparently to himself because the pup has his hands in the air like someone on a roller coaster.

“Oh, my goodness! Thank you.” An Omega hurries down the steps and rests a grateful hand on Gilbert’s arm, then uses that same hand to swat at his child. “I’ve told you so many times, you have to be careful on stairs!”

The pup barely notices, chasing after his brother with his dam in hot pursuit. Gilbert watches them go, a faint smile on his lips. _You’re welcome._

“Nice catch, detective.”

Gilbert turns. Alfred Jones walks down the steps, two cookies in his hand. Gilbert arches an eyebrow as they stand beside the iron railing. “Thanks. Detective.”

The American Alpha grins, delighted. “Think you’ll have a pair of squealers like that someday?”

Gilbert’s not sure where this intimate talk is coming from—he knows Alfred only because he works for Arthur and, being detectives, their paths are naturally going to cross—so he nods guardedly. “Sure, one day. It’d be nice. What about you? You like kids?”

Alfred takes a bite of cookie and puts it in one cheek to reply, “Nah. Get stuck in your teeth.”

He’s joking, but there’s a well-covered, old sorrow in his eyes, something he’s resigned himself to, something Gilbert only notices because it’s his job to notice things others overlook. Still, Alfred isn’t his concern. If he starts feeling protective of all the Alphas in the world as well as the Omegas, he’ll never get any goddamn work done.

“You’ve been spending too much time with Kirkland,” Gilbert remarks.

Alfred laughs, loud enough that a pair of older dams look over with disapproval. “Amen to that. Check ya later, G.”

Then he walks off, munching on his cookies. Gilbert thinks for a moment that if half of Alfred’s charm was transplanted to Arthur Kirkland, all of their lives would be at least a little bit nicer. _Going to court would be nicer, anyway._ He’s never thrilled to be put on the stand, but he can think of about a thousand things he’d rather do than be cross-examined by Arthur while Francis watches from the defense table.

Inside, Gilbert finds Roma talking with a group of Alphas in low tones. They glance over at Gilbert as he walks in, but he just gives them a small nod and turns away so Roma knows he’s not after him. Feliciano is kneeling in silent prayer while Lovino sits on the pew beside him, his own head bowed. Gilbert thinks he’s being spiritual too, until he nears and sees Lovino is just doodling on his hand. Lovino must hear the assurance in Gilbert’s gait—the wood floors and high ceilings make it impossible to walk quietly in here, especially when you’re six-foot and wearing boots—because he lifts his head and looks over. Gilbert glances at undisturbed Feliciano and holds up five fingers, hoping to indicate brevity. Lovino whispers something to Feliciano—who still doesn’t even twitch—and gets up.

Lovino leads Gilbert over to the other side of the church. The Italian Omega edges closer to a pew, but instead of sitting down at the last minute he leans against the wall. Gilbert feels a bit rude sitting down while an Omega is standing, but he figures that’s old-fashioned and reductionist so he sits down. The pew isn’t even cushioned, it’s just wood with fabric on top. He can’t imagine sitting on it for an hour straight, but then, he can’t imagine a God exists who would let such terrible things happen all the time. So, different strokes for different folks.

“How was the service?” he asks, for politeness’s sake.

“Fine,” Lovino replies, ever the teenager despite his twenty-one years.

“I just want to ask you a few questions,” Gilbert says. He remembers Antonio saying _It’s always a few questions, isn’t it? Even if you had ninety-nine, you’d round it to a few._ Francis had laughed harder than Gilbert. _It’s like a baker’s dozen. A detective’s few._

Lovino’s mouth twists a little. “Haven’t I told you everything already?”

 _Avoidant,_ Gilbert notes, then folds the thought and tosses it away. No one wants to talk about something like this, even if it does help the case. These are details not meant to dwell on. “I just wanted to follow up, make sure of a couple things. When I was reading over your statement I realized I never asked if Feliciano’s underwear were washed or not, after the assault.”

Lovino’s eyes narrow slightly. In thought? His response comes after a pause: “No, they weren’t washed. You’re not supposed to wash evidence.”

“But Feliciano did wash himself up a bit,” Gilbert says.

Now the hazel eyes spark. “He was _upset_ at the time—”

“I understand,” Gilbert says calmly. “I’m just confirming his statement. He woke you when he got home, you said. So you heard water running in the bathroom, I assume?”

Lovino crosses his arms over his chest. “Yeah.”

“It’s just a little unusual,” Gilbert says, and makes sure to keep his voice down for this next part, lest the church’s acoustics betray him. _I wonder if I’ll go to hell for saying semen in church._ “The lab didn’t find any semen on the underwear. If he walked home in them . . .”

He’s not going to come outright and say it, nor is he going to think of Francis being related in any way to the messy aftermath of mating. He wouldn’t want to think about that _anyway_ , but now it’s so much worse, with this situation. It’s so much easier to discuss these things when it’s just _the Alpha_ he’s referring to, some faceless perpetrator he’s never heard of outside of the case. You’d think a human element would be a good thing when the job is helping people, but it’s far simpler without it.

“Well,” Lovino says, then stops himself. He must be overly aware of Gilbert’s eyes on him, because he shifts his weight to one hip and says again, “Well. Maybe he didn’t wear them home. I don’t know, I didn’t see. He might’ve taken them off after it happened.”

Despite his training not to react to the things that come out of witnesses’ mouths, Gilbert’s brow furrows. Feliciano huddled in the ditch after he was assaulted and took his underwear off, then put his pants back on and walked home? At night, in November? And even if he did do that—Gilbert has heard of stranger things happening during states of shock, to be fair—then the same law of gravity would apply, regardless if the semen would be soaking into underwear or trousers. Gilbert supposes it’s not impossible for nothing to drip out . . . what does he know, really, it’s not like he’s ever had sex without a condom . . . and that was when he was in college, for God’s sake . . . _two months is such a long time_ . . .

“If you don’t believe me,” Lovino snaps, bringing him back to the church, “why are you asking me?”

“I never said I didn’t believe you. I didn’t mean to imply that, either,” Gilbert says, trying to soothe. “You know how it works. The more tiny details we can pin the perp down with, the more likely he’ll be convicted.”

“Hm.” Lovino crosses his arms tighter, trying to hide the fact that he wants to hug himself, and looks across the nave at Feliciano. His anger fades as he watches his brother pray.

Gilbert keeps his eyes on Lovino. “You seem very protective of your brother.”

He’s thinking, _Maybe overly protective_ , and Lovino must be telepathic because he’s snapping again: “We’re all each other have. We were foster kids. You don’t know what that feels like.”

“It feels like wondering why anybody would ever want to stay with you, if your parents didn’t even want you.” The Italian Omega’s eyes go round, and Gilbert smiles lightly. “I was adopted when I was six. My parents thought they couldn’t have pups, until they had one by accident eight years later. So I know what it’s like to be a foster kid, and I know what it’s like to care about a little brother.”

Lovino’s face is still a portrait of surprise. “You have a brother?”

Gilbert nods. “His name is Ludwig. I haven’t seen him in . . . almost four years, now.” It doesn’t feel all that long ago, but it’s an eternity at the same time. Four years, two months, who knew emotion could bend time so dramatically?

Lovino’s brow furrows now, gaze intensifying. “He doesn’t ever call you?”

He shrugs. “We don’t really have much to talk about. My work is all confidential.”

More empathy radiates from the Italian Omega now than even when he was talking to his distraught brother, and Gilbert can’t help but be a little suspicious of that. “Do you miss him?”

Even with his guard up against manipulation, that question still has a wave of feelings crashing down on him. Playing with his brother when they were pups, always leading the way; adolescence bringing bad behavior for both of them, but Ludwig taking it further and further each time until Gilbert had to betray him; those blue eyes getting colder each morning until the ice finally cracked and shouted at their dam over breakfast; Gilbert getting between them, realizing his little brother had finally outgrown him; their sire looming over all of them, his growl unwavering even as his mate pleaded behind him. _Get out, and don’t come back._ Gilbert thought he’d never hear from him again, but five months later they’d gotten a letter with no return address saying Ludwig was reevaluating his life and wanted to know what his purpose was, being born so late and unexpectedly after they already had the son they wanted. _I must have some reason to be here._ Gilbert had never realized that had bothered Ludwig so much; his brother had never mentioned it, but then, they weren’t the sort of family to discuss feelings like that. Ludwig’s description of searching for his _true purpose_ seemed pretty out-there to Gilbert, and still does, but these days he sees soul-searching as a coping mechanism more than anything. Some people fill a house with pups, some people work themselves to death, some people give themselves over to faith. Everyone seeks validation somehow.

“Sometimes,” Gilbert finally says.

Behind him, Roma Vargas calls, “Ready to go, boys?”

Gilbert turns to see the reverend’s inquiring look: _All done?_ He nods to him, standing up rather stiffly from the pew. Lovino crosses to meet his brother in the middle aisle; Feliciano gives Gilbert a little wave. He smiles at the younger Omega, then offers his card to the older. “Here. If you think of anything else you want to tell me, just call.”

Lovino tucks the card into his pocket without even looking at it. “Thanks.”

* * *

He’s just reached his car when his phone rings. He drops into the driver seat and cranks the heat, because the drafty church wasn’t very much warmer than the brisk morning air. “Beilschmidt.”

“Hey.” It’s one of the newer officers at the station, a young Alpha who tends to get underfoot, but curiosity is better than disinterest in Gilbert’s book. “We just found good prints in the ditch.”

There’s a lot to unpack from that sentence—whether or not the rookie knows what constitutes a good print is the biggest uncertainty—but Gilbert doesn’t bother. “They weren’t there yesterday. They’re unrelated to the crime.”

“Maybe not, but they’re invading a crime scene.”

“The tape was supposed to be taken down after I left.”

The rookie goes silent, and Gilbert sighs. “Take the tape down. I’ll find out who it was.”

He has two good guesses already.

* * *

Antonio lifts his hand, but the parsonage’s front door opens before he can knock. Roma regards him with a complicated cocktail of trepidation, admonishment, and warmth. “Good morning, Antonio. I didn’t see you at the service.”

He was hoping this wouldn’t come up, but he manages a smile that doesn’t look overly strained. “I prefer to worship privately.” Which is what his dam always said to tell people, because his family’s sense of spirituality always leant closer to agnosticism than anything and some folk find that unpalatable.

The reverend nods and steps aside. “Come in. Do you want some coffee?”

“No, thank you, I’ve already had more than I should this morning. And I’m not staying long.” He makes sure all traces of smile are gone from his face. “I have some bad news.”

Roma glances toward the living room doorway, where Lovino is watching them. He hesitates, then says, “Tell us.”

It strikes Antonio as a little rude not to at least welcome him past the welcome mat, but then again he wouldn’t like seeing bad news sit on his sofa, either. “Feliks’s office contacted me this morning. The defense has subpoenaed the transcripts of past and future meetings between Feliciano and Feliks.”

Roma’s eyes spark with outrage. “How is that legal?”

Now Lovino and Feliciano are in the entryway with them, and for once Feliciano is the indignant one. “But Feliks said everything we talked about would stay in the room!”

Antonio feels a helpless shrug tugging at his shoulders, but he resists lest the gesture convey impudence. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do about it, or I promise I would be doing it.”

Roma paces, even though there’s only space for two or three steps from one wall to the other. “This is an invasion of privacy! It’s not ethical!”

Feliciano looks between his guardian and his lawyer, a worried furrow in his brow now. “Can I still go to Feliks?”

“You can,” Antonio replies, “but Mr. Kirkland will have access to everything you say.”

Roma shakes his head. “You won’t be going anymore, then. That Omega has no right to the private conversations between Feliciano and a counselor.”

Antonio slips his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Unfortunately, he does have a right. Nothing is confidential, except the things said between me and Feliciano. Client-attorney privilege protects our conversations. They stay private, no matter what.”

 _Unless you say something that incriminates you._ Why is he thinking that? Just remembering his law school notes, right?

Feliciano worries at his oversize sleeves, reminding Antonio of Matthew. Shyly, the Italian Omega asks, “Can I talk with you like I did with Feliks?”

Finally, Antonio can smile. He makes it warm and kind, to make up for his inability to protect the records. “We can talk anytime. Day or night, just call. I’ll be there to listen.”

This promise seems to appease all of the Vargases; Lovino even regards Antonio with a new light of respect. Feliciano hurries forward to give him a quick little hug that Antonio gently returns. As the Omega pulls back, Antonio asks, “Would you like to go get brunch?”

“Where?” Roma asks, rather gruff.

“Just at the diner across town,” Antonio replies easily.

Feliciano shrinks back to stand beside the reverend, who puts an arm around him. “I’ll stay home with Grampa. You go, Lovi.”

Lovino glances at Roma, but whatever cryptic message lies in the Alpha’s eyes goes ignored. “Let me get my coat.”

* * *

Arthur wakes up to the feeling of cotton against his face and the sound of quiet snoring. He sits up slowly, rubbing sleep from his eyes and twisting—his spine pops in two places—to light up his mobile on the nightstand. 10:08. Not bad. He never strictly takes Sunday off, but he always sleeps in if he can. That’s how he got through law school, sleepwalking through the week and hibernating the weekends away. His gaze drops, and he realizes how he and his snoring bed companion have migrated in slumber: both of them are lying as close as possible to the pillow wall, one of Arthur’s legs even creeping over the barrier. He yanks it back, startled. Francis groans softly, but the movement doesn’t rouse him.

Arthur relaxes a bit, takes the opportunity to appraise the French Alpha. He has no right to such a handsome jawline, first and foremost. He does _yoga_ and he gets that jaw? And the eyelashes, too, why are they so long? What is it with him and hair? He has a lot of it, not just on his head—it dusts his arms, shadows his neck, swirls over his chest. _You’d think he’d wax it or something,_ Arthur thinks, _being so la-di-da._ He knows Alfred keeps himself smooth like an Omega, not that his fair body hair is easy to notice, anyway. What a peculiar blend of masculinity and femininity the frog is. _Pot, meet kettle,_ he thinks with a rueful smile. Why does it feel so misguided when he wears androgyny, but look so graceful on Francis Bonnefoy? _Even his name is ambiguous and pretty, the bastard._

Francis’s snoring abruptly resolves into a deep inhale, then a sigh as he stretches his arms. Arthur turns away, getting out of bed. “I’m showering first.”

A rather rumbly chuckle has him looking over his shoulder. Francis is sprawled over the bed, blankets tangled around his waist, bedhead framing his face with ludicrously well-behaved waves, amusement playing with his smile and crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Good morning to you, too.”

Arthur imagines the email he’d send the advice columnist: _Help! My client is reenacting an erotica novel cover in my bedroom! Do I tell him to stop or do I open the book?_

“Morning,” he says shortly, hurrying into the bathroom before he does anything he’ll regret.

After a shower that’s considerably longer than five minutes—the detachable shower head proving a worthwhile investment—he gets dressed in slacks and a button-up he doesn’t bother to tuck in. Francis is wearing a pale pink shirt with three-quarter sleeves and jeans so faded they’re probably softer than Arthur’s slacks. He spreads jam over a slice of toast with one graceful swipe, just like in a commercial. Arthur marvels at how domestic yet artful the whole thing looks—Francis moving between the toaster and the frying pan like he is the maestro, the butter knife is his baton, and the assembled ingredients are his orchestra.

Francis glances, then does a double-take and smiles comfortably at Arthur. “How do you like your eggs?”

“Eh . . . sunny-side up, I guess.”

Francis’s eyebrows quirk, but he swallows his mouthful of toast before he asks, “Doesn’t that go against your brand of snarkness?”

Arthur looks away, pressing his lips together.

“What?” Francis blinks, concerned now.

“Did you combine snark and darkness into—” His mouth twists as he squeezes the insides of his mouth between his teeth.

Francis regards him, incredulous. “Are you really about to burst out laughing because I said _snarkness_?”

Arthur fails to stifle two shoulder-shakes, but at least it’s only silent giggles. “What, can’t you see it? Carved into a board outside a cave. _Lair of Snarkness. Here be defense attorneys. Abandon hope all . ._.”

Francis is watching him with eyebrows still spiked by disbelief, but his lips are pulled into a warm, _fond_ grin. That, this French Alpha standing barefoot in his kitchen with perfectly spread toast in his hand and a gorgeous smile on his face, is too much for Arthur. He doesn’t know what to do with the happiness welling up inside him, so he clears his throat and says, “Make the bloody eggs. Earn your keep.”

He busies himself booting his laptop to check news sites, but in his peripheral vision he sees Francis smiling to himself as he cracks a pair of eggs. Arthur would rather keep watching the kitchen display—those jeans might be old but they’re still flattering—than the misfortune on the screen, but one headline hooks his attention. He clicks on the video. Shots of the fluttering police tape around the ditch precede a solemn Alpha newscaster in an ugly argyle scarf.

_“Deputy District Attorney Francis Bonnefoy was charged with sexual assault of a minor yesterday and has pled not guilty. The court date has been set for late December. The victim’s name will remain anonymous to protect his identity, but it has been released that the victim was an Omega. Still, this case has Alphas and Omegas alike wondering: who should we trust, and who is safe?”_

Arthur stops the video, then closes the page entirely. “Bloody fearmongers.”

Francis pokes at the hissing eggs with a spatula, doleful. “Do you think—”

A knock on the door. They exchange a nonplussed glance, then Arthur rises from his chair and crosses to open the door. There stands Gilbert Beilschmidt of all people, who—by way of greeting—says, “I need to see the tread of your shoes.”

Arthur leans an arm against the doorjamb, arching an eyebrow. “Got a warrant?”

The German Alpha glares down into his eyes.

Arthur retreats into the flat. “ _Fine._ No need to get territorial, God.”

He watches Francis and Gilbert. They both meet each other’s gaze, then quickly look at the floor, then look at each other again more indirectly. Francis toys with a strand of hair. Gilbert puts his hands in his pockets. Both Alphas speak like they are walking on the eggshells still waiting on the counter.

“Bonjour, Gil,” Francis says.

“Morning, Fran,” Gilbert says.

Arthur drops his shoes in front of Gilbert with an unceremonious thump. “Sorry to interrupt the riveting reunion.”

Gilbert shakes his head, stooping to check the bottom of the shoes, then taking a photograph from his coat pocket. He glances between paper and reality to confirm before rising to his full height, all the better to disapprove of Arthur from. “What were you doing in the ditch?”

“Sightseeing,” Arthur replies.

Gilbert looks over at Francis, who flashes him a guilty look before tending to the eggs. He returns his attention to Arthur. “I could charge you with tampering.”

Arthur stretches his eyes wide. “I didn’t realize there was evidence to tamper with, Officer.”

The German Alpha’s mouth opens slightly; his jaw sets when Arthur grins.

“Excellent,” Arthur says. “Tell me, since you’re feeling generous: What, exactly, is Carriedo going to use against me?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Mm, how exciting.” Arthur returns his shoes to their place beside the door. “Oh, you wouldn’t happen to know if Lovino Vargas has returned to work yet?”

Gilbert’s brow lowers. “Why do you want to know?”

The toaster pops up two new slices, so Arthur butters one for himself with far less aplomb than Francis. “I want to have a little chat with him, away from victims and vicars. But I’d need someone with a badge to watch my charge so no one blows a gasket about violating bail conditions. You wouldn’t happen to be free tomorrow afternoon?”

Gilbert glances at Francis—who studiously avoids looking away from the eggs—then nods. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“ _Splendid._ Meet us at lunchtime. At the office, obviously. You needn’t bring any refreshments.” Arthur picks up his mobile and starts tapping away, but pauses to smirk at the detective. “I don’t expect it will take very long.”

* * *

Francis wants nothing more than to sit down with Gilbert and have a normal conversation over breakfast, but that’s not possible for multiple reasons. One, there aren’t enough chairs. Two, there aren’t enough eggs. Three, there is more than enough Arthur.

Francis can tell Gilbert would rather just leave than listen to Arthur, so he interrupts as gently as he can: “Kirkland, do you think you could give us a minute? Alone? Please?”

He braces for impact, but Arthur just looks as confused as Gilbert does at the casual surname usage. “What am I supposed to do, eat breakfast in the bathtub?”

“That would be relaxing.”

The English Omega shakes his head. “Only an amphibian would want to be wet while eating.” But he takes his plate and glass of orange juice into the bedroom without further protest.

“Wow,” Gilbert says, once the bedroom door is mostly closed.

“I know,” Francis agrees, cutting his eggs with the side of his fork. “It’s not as bad as I thought it would be.”

Gilbert’s head tilts slightly. “What is? Staying here?”

Francis starts to agree, then just gives a slight shrug. “This whole process.”

The German Alpha is nodding slowly, a listening nod, and Francis is so relieved he finds himself saying, “This sounds terrible, but the worst part of all this is not being able to talk to you and Toni. I’m used to seeing you every day. I—I miss you guys.”

It takes a moment, but Gilbert’s mouth quirks into a smile. “I miss you, too.”

Francis smiles, too. “Does Toni miss me?”

The levity fades. “Toni . . . is giving his all to the case.”

Francis deflates, poking at a yolk. “So he hates me.”

Gilbert takes a long, deep breath. “Well, you’re the bad guy. So . . . yeah, I guess he hates you.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Not _you_ , but . . .” Frustration rumbles in his chest. “I don’t know how to word it.”

Francis suspects he knows what Gilbert means—Antonio hates Francis the (Alleged) Rapist, not Francis the Lawyer or Francis the Friend. He can relate to that, because he hates this hypothetical version of himself too, and so desperately wishes it _is_ only hypothetical. He looks up at Gilbert with new hope in his eyes. “But you don’t hate me?”

“You’re my best friend.”

Francis listens for it, but the end does not curl up with uncertainty; if anything, it drops down with the weight of dedication and shared sorrow. He smiles down at his food until he’s sure he won’t tear up. “Will you still say that if I’m found guilty?”

Gilbert is quiet a moment. “If you were found guilty, I’d still miss you. And I know Toni would, too.”

The past tense catches in his mind. He looks up. “Do you think I’m innocent?”

At last, Gilbert meets his gaze, and in each other’s eyes they find not a challenge but the dreadful avalanche of emotion they’re both overflowing with. It’s enough to have a hushed whimper rasping in Francis’s throat, but Gilbert’s voice remains admirably even as he replies, “I don’t know.” He offers a hand to initiate one of the masculine back-slapping hugs he and Antonio often share. “But I really want you to be.”

Francis bypasses the hand and throws his arms around Gilbert, resting his chin on a broad shoulder. He can’t remember the last time they embraced like this, but it doesn’t matter. The German Alpha’s arms squeeze around him, and even though he can only hold another Alpha for a few moments before toxic masculinity kicks in and urges him to pull back, Francis still appreciates it immensely.

“Thank you,” Francis says, and they both hear sentiment cracking his voice. He clears his throat and adds, “For stopping by.”

Gilbert nods. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Walking out, he calls over his shoulder, “And stay out of crime scenes.”

As soon as the door closes, Arthur is back in the kitchen, putting his plate into the sink. Silent, he starts tidying up the mess, sweeping eggshells and crumbs into the bin.

Francis blinks. “No sarcastic comments?”

Arthur shakes his head. He drops the plug into the drain, turns the hot water on. His tone is almost clinical, a scientist observing behind bulletproof glass. “So that’s friendship, is it?”

Francis watches him closely. “Oui, that’s friendship.”

Arthur gives a thoughtful, how-about-that nod. Francis nudges his side with his own. “Let me wash, you dry.”

The English Omega stands fast, staring. “Why?”

“Because the water will hurt your hands.”

Arthur looks down at the dry, rough skin between his fingers and must not like the thought of submerging it in molten liquid because he steps aside and dries all that Francis washes. They work in silent tandem—save Francis’s humming—until Arthur puts the last fork away, closes the drawer, and stares at the counter so long Francis is about to ask what he sees when Arthur abruptly speaks:

“Is this friendship?”

He’s not looking at him, his shoulders are tense beneath his shirt, and his tone is borderline angry. But Francis’s smile is just as soft as the question is, beneath its hard, thorny shell. “I don’t see why not.”

Arthur looks at him sharply, but when he realizes he has not been rejected, his body relaxes and he actually returns the smile, hesitant and lopsided. “Well. From one friend to another?”

Francis nods encouragingly.

“You snore.”

“I do not snore!”

“You absolutely do.”

“Well, _you_ talk in your sleep.”

“Are you having a laugh?”

“You ramble in an undiscovered language all night long.”

“I don’t know how you’d ever hear it over your bloody snoring.”

On the counter, the kettle observes patiently, still waiting to boil for the first cup of tea.


	7. Problem Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY FOR THE DELAY HAPPY HOLIDAYS XO

_Just be yourself._ That’s what Antonio’s dam always told him when he asked for dating advice. _You have a great personality, Toni._ He took it with a grain of salt, since his dam had to be biased in his favor, but he has to admit that past dates have shown similar results: if he frets and tries to impress, everything gets screwed up. But if he just chills out and gets into genuine conversation, they both have a good time. That was so much easier with Omegas in high school, though. Maybe it’s just because the past experiences are weakened by the power of hindsight, but he thinks it’s because there was less pressure back then. No one really expected to pair-bond with someone they saw a movie with in tenth grade. That sort of thing was just innocent, even if they did make out in his parents’ car and hit third base when nobody was home. The only high school sweethearts Antonio knows are separated now. So it was probably a good thing no one took it seriously.

But this _is_ serious, or at least it feels that way. Antonio cuts up a sausage with a knife and fork (normally he’d just tear it with his teeth but he errs on the side of table manners) and tries to think of some way to get into a _genuine_ _conversation_ with Lovino. Should he really bring up solemn, introspective subjects in this situation? Wouldn’t levity be better? But he doesn’t want to seem too immature. And he doesn’t want to be self-deprecating, to diffuse the tension of the reality of them sitting here at this table in a diner, because—this is what he wants. He wants to eat with Lovino and talk with him and enjoy his company, and he wants Lovino to believe that.

“Not hungry?” he finally says, just so they don’t have to listen to the country music playing in the background.

Lovino shakes his head, stirs his coffee. “I just wanted to get out of the house.”

Antonio feels guilty, briefly, for eating in front of someone who hasn’t been served anything. Then he stops. _Gil, your tortured chivalry is rubbing off on me._ “It must be draining, living in a negative atmosphere.”

Which sounds a bit like something Francis would say during his de-stress meditation, but Antonio does believe in auras or vibes or internal energy. It’s the same thing that makes little fights turn into street riots; if anger can spread among people like a forest fire, why can’t sorrow? Or, for that matter, joy?

Lovino nods. “It’s not just hard on Feli. That’s probably selfish, but whatever. I don’t care.” He scowls a little. “I hate how tragedies make everybody feel guilty for existing. Like, life doesn’t pause just because something bad happened. Life _is_ bad stuff happening.”

Antonio smiles kindly. He’ll ignore the pessimism, because he suspects Lovino gets preached at enough as it is. “I don’t think it’s selfish. You support him more than anyone else. This is probably taking a lot out of you. Nobody would want to see his little brother go through this. It’s hard, to be the strong one all the time.”

The Italian Omega’s gaze finds him sharply, then falls away, pensive.

The silence stretches so taut Antonio can’t help but break it: “So . . . what did Gilbert want to talk to you about?”

Lovino glances up, brow low on his eyes. “Shouldn’t you know already? I thought you guys were working together.”

The look is borderline suspicious, or maybe just disapproving. Either way, it gets under Antonio’s skin, and he shifts in the perpetually greasy booth seat. “We are, but . . .”

A slight lean forward, like this is the latest hot gossip. “But what?”

Antonio wiggles the straw in his chocolate milkshake. Was it juvenile to order this? _Be yourself._ Easier said than done when being someone else would make it simpler to handle this case. “It’s just—kind of difficult, figuring out how to do this. It’s a complicated situation.”

 _I’m not too close to this case._ He still believes he isn’t. If he was any farther away, he’d be ripping his hair out right now. The helplessness would kill him. This way, he has something to put his energy and despair into, for a more constructive outcome. How could that be a mistake?

Lovino sits up straight in his chair, eyes narrowed only slightly. The subtlety of the expression somehow makes it feel more severe than any amount of glaring or grimacing would. “Do you think Francis is guilty? Even though he was your friend?”

“Of course I do,” Antonio replies, without hesitation. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be able to ethically represent Feliciano.”

Lovino watches him closely. “Do you really believe it?”

Antonio wants to just eat his sausages, but he can’t bring himself to look away from those hazel eyes. “I don’t want to, but I do.”

Lovino nods, easing back with relief. “Thank you.”

Antonio starts smiling automatically at the Omega’s approval and gratitude, but it fades when he considers the behavior more objectively. Is Lovino asking this because he thinks Antonio is torn between friendship and justice, or because he just needs to hear someone say it? He tilts his head a little. “Do you think someone doesn’t believe you?”

A scowl twists Lovino’s face. “Sure seems like it. The detective practically interrogated me this morning.”

Antonio recalls his earlier conversation with Gilbert, the doubt lingering in those grey-red eyes, and then imagines him badgering Lovino with questions like he’s seen Gilbert do in recordings of interrogations. It’s all well and good when he slams his hands down on the interrogation table, glares and growls, or worse—layering on tiny questions until he’s built up a whole wall to crash down on the person. Gilbert doesn’t exactly have a silver tongue, but when he manipulates people . . . it reminds Antonio far too much of Kirkland.

The thought of Lovino standing defenseless against an Alpha like Gilbert has Antonio’s shoulders squaring and a low growl rising in his throat, but he drops the aggression as soon as he realizes it’s come over him. What is he doing, thinking these things? What does _Alpha like Gilbert_ mean? Someone tall? Strong? Someone who would never dream of hurting an Omega?

Which is exactly what he thought about Francis. _And look what happened._

He expects Lovino to look frightened, or angry—what Omega wouldn’t, sitting across from an Alpha who can’t keep himself from snarling—but the Italian Omega has warmth in his eyes, and even a bit of . . . lust?

Desire burns through Antonio, and he takes a long drink of milkshake to cool himself down. Brain freeze would be a blessing. He’s never had such a conflicting tornado inside him. He’s always been the cheerful one of the trio, balancing out Francis’s wont for woe and Gilbert’s stoicism. Now everything is getting fucked up.

But he has an Omega looking at him with bedroom eyes, so that’s definitely something.

This time it’s Lovino who speaks first. “Tell me something, Toni. Is there anything we can do to make this process easier on Feli?”

 _Toni._ That feels good every time. “Did you have something in mind?”

Lovino nods. “He has trouble speaking in front of people. When he has to do presentations at school, the teachers let him do them after class so he doesn’t have to stand up in front of everyone. And going to court will be way worse.” He plucks a straw from a little box beside the salt and pepper shakers, drops it into Antonio’s milkshake. “I’m wondering if there’s some way I could be with Feli when he testifies.”

Antonio considers the picture that will paint for the jury—an Omega so frightened he needs moral support to even get words out of his mouth—and considers how helpful that will be when Arthur lets loose on him. Anyone would be grateful to have a hand to hold when that English Omega starts frothing at the mouth. _Arthur’s gonna be pissed,_ he thinks, and the thought of the redcoat finally getting something other than what he wants has Antonio grinning as he watches Lovino steal his milkshake. “I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

Francis has absolutely no intention of letting Arthur work on a Sunday—especially not when the work is defending him in this wretched case—so he intercepts Arthur before he can reach his laptop. “What are we going to do today? How do you normally spend days off?”

Arthur crosses his arms over his chest. “Normally I don’t take days off. I’d rather just get the job done so I can move on to the next one.”

Francis waits for some self-aware snark to follow this, but nothing comes. “Are you familiar with the concept of burnout?”

Green eyes flick to the ceiling. “Hate to rain on your parade, Dr. Bonnefoy, but that only applies if you do it for an extended period of time.”

“When did you plan on stopping?”

Arthur goes quiet, and though Francis’s question wasn’t asked with negative tone or intention, he still wishes he could take it back. Arthur’s response comes before he can apologize, so offhand he could be talking about changing the oil in his car: “I might be promoted to partner this year. Once that happens, things will be different.”

 _So he knows._ Francis can’t claim to understand the inner societies of law firms. He wonders if Densen has told Arthur about his potential promotion. He pictures that big hand on Arthur’s shoulder. _Slippery slope,_ Francis had said. _Quid pro quo harassment_ is what he meant, and he knows Arthur knows the laws just as well as him. He doesn’t think anything has happened between them—he doubts Arthur would keep it a secret, if it had—but he wouldn’t put it past that tall, handsome, confident Alpha to do something like that. And he wouldn’t put it past Arthur “Sex Means Nothing To Me” Kirkland to go along with it.

“How?” Francis asks, keeping his tone light. “How will things be different?”

Arthur gestures to the flat. “I won’t be living in a shithole like this anymore, for one thing.”

Francis doesn’t follow the contemptuous gaze around. “I know this is nosy, but . . . are you paid—well, fairly?”

As expected, fire sparks in Arthur’s eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Francis opens his mouth, but Arthur’s just getting started. “As if I didn’t know. No, I don’t get paid less because I’m an Omega, if that’s what you’re choking on. It wouldn’t look good for a law firm to break the law, would it? I make sixty percent of average earnings for the monthly missed week, same as every other Omega in the workforce.”

“Then technically you do get paid less for being an Omega,” Francis says. “Since there’s no way you can stop going into heat.”

“Feel free to stop the equalist pandering anytime. It’s annoying from Omegas and just tacky from you.” Arthur looks down at himself, takes great care to remove a tiny black thread from his shirt. “Anyway. If I really wanted to stop heats, I could get a TAH-BSO.”

Francis’s eyebrows rise. “A what?”

“Total abdominal hysterectomy with bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy,” Arthur replies, with the ease of a student who memorized vocab words the night before a test.

Francis recognizes most of the words, but he still asks, “What is that?”

A nonchalant shrug from a tense body. “Cutting out all of the reproductive system, basically. Uterus, ovaries, tubes, the lot.”

Francis imagines it: Arthur prone on an operating table, masked doctors carving like butchers, Arthur recovering with no one to help him. _He would have Alfred,_ logic tells him. But that doesn’t stop Francis from wanting to whimper. “Is this something you’ve thought about for a long time?”

There’s nothing nonchalant about the way those shoulders rise now. “Don’t patronize me. Of course I have. I never said I was actually going to do it. I’d have to take time off work, and I can’t do that yet.” Something like discomfort flits across his face, and he pauses for a deep breath. “Anyway, it’s twenty grand I’d rather spend on equity for the firm. Becoming partner is an investment, you know.”

Francis did know that, at one point, but it had apparently slipped his mind. He can’t focus on that, though. It’s one thing to dress like an Alpha, talk like an Alpha, make yourself _smell_ like an Alpha—but to remove the core thing that makes you an Omega? To irrevocably change your future with one decision? “Do you think . . . would you ever adopt? Pups?”

Arthur stares at him a moment, then throws his hands in the air. “What is the fucking fixation on reproduction? The world has enough people in it already. I have enough on my plate. I’m not a bloody broodmare.” He shakes his head. “My happily ever after is not becoming a housedam for some Alpha or raising a pup who knows his babysitter better than his own parents.” The flames are giving way to dark coals in his eyes. “I don’t want a family. The first one was bad enough.”

Francis watches him, but at last, he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t ask. He just waits.

The Omega looks down at the floor. His arms are at his sides, but close, elbows bent slightly, shoulders hunched; he’d be hugging himself, if he didn’t think it would make him look weak. When he finally speaks, it sounds hollow: “I think we need to get out of each other’s pockets.”

Francis nods, smiling gently. “Let’s stop talking about serious things.”

Arthur starts to pass him, headed once again for his laptop, the crutch of routine. “Yeah, whatever.”

Francis sees his mood is already dropping, and he doesn’t like to think how low it will be by the time he thinks of a better way to cheer him up. This stuffy place is too barren to be cheerful. They need fresh air, movement, color. So he takes Arthur’s hand. “Let’s go to the mall.”

Arthur jerks away, but Francis just smiles wider, unperturbed, as he adds, “I haven’t been there in ages.”

“I don’t need anything from the mall.”

Francis rolls his eyes. “Shopping isn’t about _needing_ , it’s about looking around and having a good time.”

Arthur arches an incredulous eyebrow. “What’s a _good time_ about wandering around Consumerism Playland?”

Francis wags a finger at him. “Ah-ah-ah. No serious things, remember?”

Now Arthur rolls his eyes. “Oh yes, let’s frolic like airheads.”

Francis clasps his hands together, grinning. “I have the perfect scarf for frolicking.”

Arthur presses a finger into his temple. “I hate you.”

* * *

Feliciano has always liked to bake things, for several reasons. The obvious: the tasty results of the baking. And the less obvious: the brightness of egg yolks, the tactile pleasure of kneading dough, the lovely smells, the warmth of the oven, the inherent safety of a list of instructions to follow, and the smile on the face of whoever receives a baked good. He usually does it by himself—even though he hates to be alone, there’s a certain cozy solitude in whispering secrets to the sugar—but today Roma joins him in the kitchen.

“What are we making?” he asks, rolling up his sleeves.

Feliciano rests his fingertips on the yellowed pages of the cookbook. “Biscotti.”

Roma glances at the page. “Why do you need this? You’ve known how to make these yourself for years, cucciolo.”

Feliciano only looks up from the countertop when Roma’s hand cups his cheek. “Feli.” His eyes are somehow fierce and soft at once. “I wish there was some way I could take the pain from you. Is there any way? Anything I can do?”

The last thing Feliciano wants to see is Reverend Vargas, his guardian, his Grampa, pleading with him like this. He just wants to dig a hole through the tiles and vanish into whatever lies beneath. (Hell, ideally, but the furnace room is a close second.) But still, it does occur to Feliciano that what he wants, when you get right down to it, is freedom. Freedom from this terrible, horrible, awful feeling. That can’t be achieved, but a lesser freedom might be within his grasp.

“Yes,” Feliciano whispers.

The light in Roma’s eyes is a blade in Feliciano’s heart. “Tell me.”

“I want to go to school tomorrow,” Feliciano says, all at once so none of it can get caught in the foggy tunnel of his throat.

Roma’s brow furrows, and he releases him. “You do? Are you sure that’s such a good idea? It would be easier for you if you stayed here. You’re still recovering. That takes time.”

Just as he’d feared. He doesn’t want to press too hard—has never wanted to argue with someone kind enough to take him in and love him—but he _wants_ this. “I know. But I want to go back.” He tugs at the bag of slivered almonds, but he can never get them open himself. “I think it’ll help me feel better.”

Roma takes the bag from him and pulls it open easily. “I don’t like you walking to and from school by yourself. I don’t think it’s safe.”

“But I wasn’t going to school when—” His voice cracks, and he looks down again. He used to talk all the time—nonstop, if you asked Lovino—but he cannot remember the ease with which words once flowed from his lips. He never had to pick a certain phrasing or avoid a word. Even talking is different now. He just wants one thing to be normal in his life.

The reverend fixes a hard stare on the almonds. It takes a moment, but he relents. “I suppose Lovino could walk you to school in the morning . . .”

 _If that’s what it takes._ Not that extra time spent with his brother is a bad thing. Feliciano smiles lightly. “Feliks says it’ll help take my mind off things. He encouraged it.”

Roma’s mouth presses to a firm line, but when he sees the pale hope in the young Omega’s eyes, he nods. “Okay, cucciolo. You can go back to school.” He gives him a chuck under the chin. “But if there’s any trouble at all, call me right away. Promise?”

Feliciano nods, offering a pinkie. “Promise.”

At last, the reverend offers one of his famous warm smiles, and they twine their fingers to swear it.

* * *

Gilbert pulls over to the side of the road and puts his phone to his ear. “Beilschmidt.”

“Hey.” Antonio’s voice sounds very close in his ear. It sounds almost tight, the words wrapped in barbed wire. “Why are you trying to freak out Lovino?”

 _Not now, Toni._ He’s on his way to Iris House, he’s in a good mood, this is not when he wants to discuss the misgivings he has for this case, and especially for Lovino Vargas. He watches a familiar truck drive by and lifts two fingers off the steering wheel to wave. “I wasn’t trying to freak him out. I was just following up.”

“Listen. Lovino is not the perp here,” Antonio says. There’s a rasp of a snarl in his voice, and that has the hair at the nape of Gilbert’s neck prickling. “Your job isn’t to grill family members of victims.”

“I didn’t _grill_ anybody,” Gilbert retorts. “I just asked him some questions about the case, which is what detectives do.” He realizes his knuckles are white on the steering wheel and relaxes his grip, letting his tone ease to something calmer. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.”

That last sentence wasn’t as harsh as the others, but somehow the softness made it worse. Neither of them speak, and Gilbert can only hear the sentence echoing. Is that how friends speak to each other? No. But it is how people who have to work with each other talk. It’s never been a problem, until now. They’ve never disagreed on a case, until now.

 _I could’ve been ten times worse than I was,_ he considers saying, but decides against it. In truth, he sort of doubts his conviction behind that statement. Could he really treat an Omega like an Alpha, in an interrogation sense? If someone’s life depended on it, he bets he could. If a bomb was about to go off. Or if it was Arthur Kirkland, then it would be easy.

A short sigh hisses through the speaker. “I don’t want to lose you over this, too.”

Gilbert feels a rueful smile on his lips, but before he can pave this over with diplomacy— _we’re all upset, you have a lot on your mind, don’t worry about it, Toni_ —the Spanish Alpha’s voice hardens again: “Don’t make me.”

And he hangs up.

* * *

Francis grew up in a fairly rural area—bigger than the town he now lives in, but still rustic enough that most of the Alphas grew up to be farmers, fishers, builders, and other assorted -ers with blue collars—so the concept of _going to the mall_ has always had an intrinsic giddiness to it. He remembers a trip when he was just a pup, clinging to his dam’s hand, thoroughly overwhelmed by all the people. His sire had taken one look at him and picked him up—because this was still when he was small enough to do that, back when he still had the excuse of childhood for his androgyny—to set him on his shoulders. From his seat high above the sea of people, he wasn’t afraid. His dam had smiled up at him in his soft way, a way that would soon prove too soft to compete with his mate’s ideas for Francis. _Regarde le beau chiot._

Now, walking in with a sullen English Omega at his side, Francis is plunged into a deep pool of nostalgia for that lost innocence. Every villain put on trial was a _chiot_ once. Does Arthur ever think about that, he wonders? Probably not. Too sentimental. The same rule applies to him, though. He was a child, at one point. Francis imagines a twig-limbed, huge-eyed, shaggy-headed little creature, prancing through a meadow. _A meadow?_ How very fey. He ditches the meadow. England, what does England look like? He drops the wheat-haired pup onto a soggy, grey street. Hopping in sooty puddles, bawling curse words at passersby. An irreverent urchin, that seems the most likely origin of someone like Arthur Kirkland.

“So—” Arthur steps closer to Francis when a herd of young Alphas walks by. They nearly span the whole foyer, all of them in backwards caps and too-large trousers. Arthur turns to watch them go, then glances at Francis. “You know, Alphas like that make you look much better in comparison.”

Francis puts his hands into his pockets to keep them from wandering near Arthur’s waist. “Thanks, I guess. What were you saying?”

“Hm? Oh. I was going to ask what shop you’re going to drag me into first.”

The first store Francis lays eyes on is an Omega clothing store, so he grabs Arthur’s hand with flourish and tugs him. “That one!”

Arthur rolls his eyes, but lets Francis lead him in. Inside, they trade the general chatter and Muzak of the mall for the giggly gossip of the two Omegas behind the counter and some inoffensive pop music. Before Arthur can make some disparaging remark about the effeminate way the Omegas are talking, Francis gestures to a pair of mannequins wearing skimpy denim shorts. “Why don’t you wear clothes like that?”

Arthur scowls at the white legs, all four knees bent coquettishly. “Something can be left to the imagination, on occasion.”

Francis smiles at a rack of shirts. They’re soft colors but still more vibrant than pastel, with faded curlicues and flower petals. “I would wear these.”

Arthur shakes his head. “Are you dressing as your grandam’s couch, or curtains?”

“Oh, stop, this isn’t even floral. It’s just pretty.” He holds one up to himself, but it’s too small of course. He goes to hold it up to Arthur instead, but the Omega shies away. “Have you ever worn something like this?”

Arthur looks at the shirt as if it might burn him upon touching it. “When my dam forced them on me, yeah. Not since then. I wouldn’t be caught dead in something pink.”

“Anyone can wear pink,” Francis points out.

“Cry me a river. If anyone can wear it, why don’t they have it in your size?”

Francis can’t think of a good way to argue with that, and besides—they’re not talking about serious things. So he takes Arthur’s hand again and draws him to another store, only smiling to himself when Arthur protests, “Do you think I’m going to wander off?”

But he doesn’t jerk free of his grasp. And his skin might be dry, but it’s warm, too.

They go from shop to shop, peering at the merchandise. They share truffles from a cute chocolate shop. _(I’m having one and you’re having one. That’s not sharing, Francis.)_ They spend five seconds in a store that sells only soap before Francis starts a sneezing fit. (The Omega working there apologizes, saying it happens to a lot of Alphas. Arthur tells him if anyone ever sues, call Densen & van den Berg.) They do a funeral march around a CD store. They test several sofas in a furniture store, judging each based on coziness of cushion and tenderness of texture. They go into another clothes store, this one catering to pups.

Francis can’t help but squeal. “Look!” He takes up a tiny bootie attached to a blue bear onesie. “Ah, trop mignon! The boots have little paws—paw pads! Petit ours!”

Arthur regards him with both eyebrows raised. “Are you actively regressing? From English to French to mindless babbling? Should I ring a medical professional?”

Francis tuts, amused. “Oh, even you have to admit these things are cute.” He touches a tiny pom-pom on a tiny knitted hat. “So sweet.”

Arthur’s mouth opens, but closes swiftly when one of the workers comes over, smiling at them both. “Hi,” says the Omega. “How old is your pup?”

In unison, Francis says, “Oh, we don’t have—” and Arthur says, “We’re not—”

“Oh, I see.” The Omega smiles knowingly at them.

Arthur meets that warm gaze with a slight grimace. “Come on, Bonnefoy.”

Francis gives the worker an apologetic smile and follows Arthur out. “We make a cute couple.”

“Cute is not how I’d describe it.”

“How would you describe it?”

Arthur ponders it long enough that Francis thinks he’s not going to say anything, but just then Arthur perks up and replies, “You know how they teach kids about magnets in science class? Well, there was this stupid kid who was convinced he could make two identical poles touch—and these were serious magnets, mind—so he tried and tried to push the magnets together and they pushed each other apart so hard he punched himself in the face and cried for fifteen minutes.” He nods, satisfied. “That’s how I’d describe us as a couple.”

Francis tucks some hair behind his ear. “The twist of that story is that you were the kid.”

“I wasn’t—” Arthur frowns at him. “I think you’re missing the point.”

Francis smiles. “I think _you’re_ forgetting that opposites attract.”

“You need to st—”

“Is that a photo booth?” Francis steps over to the old thing, impressed. “I’m surprised this is still here. What a relic.” Arthur approaches, muttering something like _five-year-old_ , and Francis turns to him: “We should get our picture taken.”

“Are you a preteen Omega?”

“Wha . . . no—”

“But you had to think about it.”

Francis pouts. “We’re friends, friends take pictures together.”

Arthur removes his mobile from his pocket. “Then take it with this, so it looks better and you don’t have to waste money on it.”

Delicately, Francis accepts the phone. “You’re going to take a selfie with me?”

Arthur tightens his grip. “If it ends this conversation, I will take one, _singular_ selfie.”

“Deal.” Francis pivots. “We need to find a good location first.”

“Oh, my God.”

They end up back in front of the soap store, so they can use the bright bubbles on the window as a backdrop. “You’ll see all of two inches of that,” Arthur complains, but falls silent when Francis raises the phone. “Alright, there’s your selfie. If it’s blurry, that’s your own daft fault.”

Francis lowers the phone so they can see the picture. They’re standing as close as they can get without touching, Francis is smiling (he regrets not fluffing his hair a little), and Arthur has his arms crossed over his chest, glowering at the phone so exaggeratedly it crosses from grumpy to silly. Francis smiles fondly at it, and when he glances at Arthur, for just a second he sees a faint smile curling those pale lips.

“I told you we make a cute couple,” Francis says, triumphant.

“Your flirting has improved slightly,” Arthur tells him, turning away. “But it’s still bad. So stop.”

Francis’s smile fades, but before he can apologize Arthur is talking again: “No, don’t duck your head like that. If someone criticizes you, just accept it and work with it. Or ignore it, whatever. But don’t act like I cut you off at the knees.” He regards Francis with fierce green eyes. “Just, you know, take it on the chin.”

Francis can hear his sire now. _Would you stop crying? So they called you names, so what? You’re just making it worse, being a victim like this._ “It’s hard to smile with a stiff upper lip.”

“Well.” Arthur puts his phone back in his pocket. “A stiff lip is better than that pitiful frown you had going on. Let’s go in here.”

Francis veers after him, surprised. The pet store is thick with the scent of kibble and dog jerky, and alive with the sounds of whistling and squawking birds. Arthur smiles at the sleepy kittens and reaches into an open-topped cage to stroke a lop-eared bunny. Francis only wants to watch, but the rabbits are too adorable to ignore, so he pets an albino one, reminded of Gilbert by those red eyes. _No serious things,_ he reminds himself. He didn’t think cheering his attorney up would cheer himself up so much, too. But they’re not just attorney and client, are they? They’re friends. As of this morning.

“Oi, Bonnefoy.”

Francis turns. Arthur stands in front of a shelf of hideous arachnids, tiny turtles, and sticky-tongued lizards, but it’s a seemingly empty tank he’s tapping on. Francis comes over, peers inside. Arthur points to the leaves. Francis realizes one of the leaves is in fact a frog.

“There you are,” Arthur says, and ducks away, smirking, when Francis swats at him.

Francis follows him into the aquariums, a tunnel of bubbly fish tanks, bright orange and red and yellow and white shimmers swimming round and round. Arthur watches the fish; Francis watches Arthur, bathed in blue light and shadow. He looks startlingly youthful like this, with his head tipped back to take in the whole sight before him. Francis thinks of that scruffy little boy, chasing raindrops. Did he have a furry companion? (Francis grew up with a rotating cast of tabby cats and a token attempt at a goldfish when he was six.)

“Did you have pets?” he asks. “When you were young?”

“Yep, three brothers.” Arthur taps a pensive knuckle against one of the fish tanks, but not hard enough to disturb the fish. “And my dam was a bitch, so you might as well include him, too.”

This is breaking the _no serious things_ rule, but he has a suspicion Arthur hasn’t talked about this with anyone in quite a while, and bottling things up is never a good idea. So he goes for what he hopes is the path of least resistance: “Was your sire okay, at least?”

“Dunno. He wasn’t there.” Arthur slips his hands into his pockets, still staring into the blue. “Dead. Car accident, when I was . . . well, I wasn’t even born yet. Apparently the doctors were worried my dam would get so upset he’d lose me, so they got a pastor in to talk to him. He’s been a fundamentalist ever since. No meat on Friday, wears dresses, grows his hair down to his arse. Totally brainwashed.”

 _At least you weren’t lost._ He suspects that brand of optimism would not be received well. “Does that mean he forced you to wear dresses and long hair?”

“Of course.” He runs a hand over his slicked hair. “I was going to shave my head in law school but one of the profs said it wouldn’t be a good look. He said I ought to take advantage of the Brit-in-America thing. You know, be a smarmy, posh bastard, not a chavvy skinhead.”

Francis wonders what that professor is up to now. “So you were the picture of innocence before that prof came along?”

“No, I was a smarmy bastard before. He just added the posh.” Arthur finally turns to him. “I’m getting peckish, shall we find something to eat?”

Francis tilts his head. “I thought you said you hated eating.”

Arthur narrows his eyes, and Francis swiftly takes hold of his hand. “Let’s go find something vaguely healthy in the food court.”

The English Omega glares at him, then down at their hands, then sighs, expression clearing into weary resignation. “Aren’t you just a barrel of monkeys.”

* * *

There are multiple benefits to getting pizza in the city. For one, the pizza places in the city are almost all of higher quality than the small-town grease trap across from the pharmacy ( _before and after,_ as Francis says). For another, Gilbert is pretty unlikely to be recognized in the city, so if anyone finds it unsavory that someone his age is dining with someone Matthew’s age, at least they won’t climb the grapevine about it. But best of all is the fact that it’s an hour round-trip, and Matthew keeps his hand on the gear shift so whenever Gilbert touches it, he gets to touch soft, warm fingers too.

Gilbert has once again waived his right to control the radio, and Matthew has them bouncing back and forth between a country station and a pop station, timing it right so they never have to hear commercials. Gilbert usually listens to rock, but he’s not very fussy about music. Still, he says, “That’s the fifth mention of _truck_ , just for the record.”

Matthew smiles. “He just wants to make sure you know he really likes his truck.”

Gilbert suspects the Alpha singing this song has never owned a pickup truck, but that’s the sort of cynicism he tries to turn off when he’s with Matthew. He envies the Omega for his optimism, for the superpower of finding magic in mundanity, and for his seemingly unlosable temper. If the world had the patience of Matthew Williams, it would be a much better place.

“Gil,” Matthew says.

“Hm?” Gilbert slows to a halt for a red light and glances at him.

“You’re turning right, right?”

He smiles a little. “Right.”

Matthew stifles a giggle. “So you should be in the right lane, right?”

Gilbert looks past Matthew to the lane he should be in, but it’s already filled with cars and it’s illegal to change this late anyway. So he says, “We’ll go the long way around.”

Matthew touches his wrist lightly. “Did you get lost in thought?”

Gilbert nods, leaning for a quick kiss to a knuckle before the light turns green and he’s back to driving. “Guess I did. Sorry. Just . . .” He doesn’t want to upset him, nor does he want to drag his own mood back down again after Matthew’s presence so easily lifted it.

“Thinking about the case?” Matthew guesses, sympathetic.

“Yeah.” He gives him a brief smile that’s more pressing his lips together than anything. “It’s gonna be hard on Toni. He’s stressed already and the jury hasn’t even been picked yet.”

“It’s harder for Feliciano,” Matthew murmurs.

“Of course,” Gilbert agrees. “And his family. But—there’s a lot of emotion around this. Most of it is hard to stomach.”

In his peripheral vision he sees Matthew nod. Neither of them speak again until they get to the pizza place, where Gilbert holds the door open for not only Matthew but also a trio of middle-aged Omegas—one of whom gets caught in the loop of staring at his strange albino features, then looking quickly away so he isn’t staring, then staring again with an uneasy smile so he doesn’t seem rude for looking away so quickly. The other two don’t have nearly as much trouble; they just waltz in, thanking him over their shoulders and tittering to each other as they head to a table. When he joins up with Matthew at last, Matthew is smiling teasingly: “Aren’t you a gentleman?”

Gilbert wraps an arm around him, slipping his hand into the kangaroo pocket of Matthew’s hoodie. “To my detriment.”

Matthew looks up at him, alarmed, and Gilbert smiles. “I could never make time for all the Omegas chasing me.”

Matthew smacks his shoulder, both of them laughing. Gilbert pulls a chair out for Matthew, and in turn Matthew pulls a chair out for him. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

“You’re welcome, dear,” Matthew replies. It’s at once playful and genuine, and it makes them both a little sheepish, but they’re smiling too, and holding hands under the table. Gilbert orders mushroom on his half, bacon on Matthew’s, and ham all round. “Thin crust, please,” he says last. The waiter gives them a smile and walks off with his notepad.

“Gil.” Matthew nudges Gilbert’s knee with his own. “They have stuffed crust.”

Gilbert shakes his head. “I’m too old for stuffed crust.”

“How can you be too old for stuffed crust?”

“Ten years ago, I would’ve happily gotten _two_ stuffed crust pizzas, but those days are behind us.”

Matthew pokes his abdomen. “I don’t mind if you get squishy.”

“Well, I appreciate that, but I think I’ll fight the metabolism as long as possible.”

“Maybe you’ll get a beer belly.”

_“Matthew.”_

The giggles and joyful smile on the Omega’s face has Gilbert’s heart swelling, but his thoughts still find their way back to the call with Antonio. _Does Toni feel as protective of Lovino as I feel of Matthew?_ He wonders if all Alphas feel the same way, but just express it differently, or if they all have varying levels of instinct. Antonio has always been more emotionally intense than Gilbert. _And more impulsive,_ he thinks, even though it has some anxiety pricking at him. And now he’s stressed . . . More and more about this case falls under Gilbert’s _I Don’t Like This_ umbrella.

“Can I ask you something, Matt?” Gilbert says, poking the ice in his soda with a straw.

“Of course.” Matthew focuses on him, rather than the muted television above him.

“Do you feel protective of me?” It actually embarrasses him a bit to ask it, which he stifles as much as possible because it’s just his sire’s traditional values cropping up.

“Sure I do.” Matthew searches his face with concerned violet eyes. “I would never want something bad to happen to you.”

“But—thank you,” he says, flashing a smile. “But, like when those Omegas were looking at me. Did that make you feel protective?”

Now Matthew raises an eyebrow. “Would you feel protective if Alphas were looking at me?”

“Of course.” The thought has his shoulders squaring, claiming his space, his table and his Matthew by extension.

“I think you’re confusing _protective_ with _jealous_ ,” Matthew says gently. “And I guess I did feel maybe a tiny bit jealous. But I know you’re not interested in those Omegas.” Just a shade of terror darkens his eyes. “Right?”

“Right,” Gilbert confirms warmly. “I guess you’re right, jealousy is part of it . . . but protectiveness is, too. I just want to—” He stops, because the words he’s about to say are going to make him blush, he just knows it. It’s pretty hard to hide it when your skin has no pigment.

“What?” Matthew leans closer, tracing the veins and scars on Gilbert’s hand. “What do you want?”

 _Two months to turn into two seconds._ “I want to hold you,” Gilbert says, as low as he can so nobody can listen in. “Whenever Alphas come near you, it makes me want to hold you so no one can hurt you.”

Matthew’s eyes get suspiciously shiny, and he smiles down at his napkin. “Well, I want you to hold me, when I get scared. So I guess that’s the difference. Between Alphas and Omegas.”

It’s a cozy thought, but Gilbert wonders if things are truly that simple. He supposes it’s more the Alpha than the Antonio that’s causing the problem, but it’s hard—if not impossible—to separate those two things. What would Gilbert be, if he wasn’t an Alpha?

The waiter returns, setting their pizza down between them. “Careful,” he warns. “It’s hot. Enjoy!”

“Thanks,” Gilbert says, but the word reminds him of something. “I wanted to ask you something else.”

Matthew smiles as he gingerly moves a bacon slice onto his plate. “The last time you asked me so many questions . . . well, never mind. But go ahead. You can ask me anything, Gil.”

“And you can ask me anything,” he says. _Even though I might not be able to answer._ “I wanted to know about—er, hot flashes.”

Matthew’s eyebrows spike. “ _You_ want to talk about _Omega stuff_?”

Gilbert burns his tongue on a mouthful of pizza, washes most of his dignity down with soda, and says, “I just wondered if you’ve ever had one.”

Matthew shakes his head. “No. Those happen to old Omegas. Once they start menopause.” He blows steam away from the cheese. “And it happens during pregnancy sometimes. I think I’ve heard of that. Why?”

Now Gilbert’s eyebrows rise sharply, but he shakes his head. “Like I said, just wondering. In my day they only taught us the bare minimum in health class, you know.”

Matthew grins. “In your day they taught Alphas how to offer an arm to hold and when to take off your hat.”

“How old do you think I am?”

They spend more time laughing than eating, but neither of them mind.

* * *

From the food court they procure French fries and smoothies. “Don’t complain,” Arthur says, trying to tear into a packet of salt without biting it like a savage. “They’re French, so they must be perfect.”

“I won’t argue with that,” Francis says, “but I will object to someone with hypertension pouring salt all over fries that are already salted.”

Arthur looks at him, then at the fries, then drops the packet. “Well.” He doesn’t have anything clever to say—in fact, he has no bitter flames flickering inside him like he usually does—so he just takes one of Francis’s fries. “This is compensation. Recompense.”

“Recompense?” Francis laughs. “For what? Me being right?”

“Yes, that is a sin.” Arthur sips his smoothie and makes a face. “God, what is this?”

“It’s fruit, Kirkland. Blended fruit.”

“Oh, great, it died in the most violent way possible and now you’re making me drink its remains.”

“Of course you would only be humanitarian for plants.”

“Yes, because plants are—” He stops, watching Francis’s amused expression go sour. “What?” He twists to follow the French Alpha’s gaze.

Ivan stands behind him, smiling rather eerily down at him. “Are we going to fuck again?”

For a moment, Arthur can’t even think, let alone speak—he’s too disgusted. He feels the bitterness now, the acid, the terrible things. The look on Francis’s face makes it even worse. Where did the easy levity go? Where did that other person go, that happy person Arthur actually thought he could be?

“No,” he says, as cold and harsh as he can muster. His heart is racing now. “Don’t talk to me again. Unless it’s for work. Even then. Hire somebody else.”

Ivan lifts a hand to touch something—his shoulder, or his cheek maybe—but Arthur glares with such fury he steps back. “Fine. You know my number if you change your mind.”

He walks off, hands in his pockets, totally casual, as if he hasn’t just ruined Arthur’s day. Arthur doesn’t want to turn back round in his chair, but he can’t exactly get up and go—now he feels more trapped than he ever has by these bail conditions. They’re in public, the only way they can get home is to sit in a car together. _I could make him sit in the backseat. Or throw him in the boot._ And these are the thoughts he’s having, how best to avoid the consequences of the thing that he chose to do.

 _It didn’t matter then,_ says the dark, hateful creature inside him. _Why should it now?_

But it does. And those blue eyes—the anger in them, the _betrayal_ in them—make his heart feel like it’s about to rip free from its cage of ribs. He glares down at his fries. He won’t speak first. That will just make him look desperate.

Francis speaks slowly, like a parent catching his pup sneaking in past curfew. “I can’t believe you would sleep with a rapist.”

“I already told you.” Oh, how resentful he sounds, but the alternative is whimpers, and he will not whimper. “Sex doesn’t mean anything to me.”

Francis sits up straighter, eyes fiery like they were when he growled in the holding cell. “That’s a little different than just sleeping around, don’t you think?”

His chest is going to burst. He can’t take it. “Just call me a slut, then. That’s what I am, isn’t it?”

Francis lifts his hands, palms skyward. “Why do you do this? Do you want me to hate you, Arthur? Why?”

He can’t. There’s too much, all of this is too much—his heart pounding and the sweat on the back of his neck and his face burning and the noise all around them and those goddamned blue eyes staring at him with more concern now than anger, because of course he’s not going to stay angry, the only one who stays angry is Arthur, the only one consumed by all the black, sharp things inside him . . . _you actually want to keep it? Why?_

Arthur stands so fast his chair slams to the floor and screams: “BECAUSE I FUCKING HATE MYSELF!”

Francis stares at him, wide-eyed. So does everyone else within a twenty-meter radius. _Let them watch._ Who doesn’t love a good freak show? A fresh coat of self-loathing slithers over Arthur’s skin, and he trembles as he snarls, “It makes me hate myself more, every time. Everything I do makes me hate myself. I’m fucking great at it.”

His voice shatters before the last word is out, but he doesn’t care. He turns on his heel and storms out of the food court, a hand pressing into his sternum. He doesn’t bother with the breaths. This was all going so well, and he’s ruined it. Francis is hurrying to keep pace as he walks up an escalator, past shoppers, out into the parking lot. He blinks back tears, fumbling to get his keys out of his pocket. There’s still more ugliness in him, always more, so he continues shakily, “And it makes you hate me, right? I’m a disgusting whore, just like . . .”

 _Just like I used to be._ He’s done all this to prove his family wrong, moving away and getting a job, because his dam told him unequivocally: _You’re a slut. You’re a whore. A worthless trollop on welfare, that’s all you’ll amount to._ How has he proven them wrong? He’s lived up to their expectations, aside from the money—but he might as well be on social assistance, with the way he lives. He finally gets his keys out and they slip through his fingers, jangling against the asphalt. He puts his hands over his face. He will not cry. He will do everything in his power not to cry, even if it kills him.

A soft jingle has his hands moving away. Francis has crouched to pick up the keys, and now he straightens to wrap his arms around Arthur. He tenses and starts to pull back at first, but then he feels the comfort of it, a warmth that starts not outside but inside, as if the Alpha’s arms are wrapped around his heart. Slowly, he relaxes and lets his cheek rest against Francis’s shoulder, closes his eyes. It takes a few minutes, but his heartbeat slows down and his breathing calms until they’re breathing together. Then he pulls back, takes his keys, and unlocks the car.

Gently, Francis asks, “Are you okay to drive?”

“I’m fine.” A brittle snap. He’s driven more upset than this. He’s driven wasted, for God’s sake. He isn’t fine, but he’s fine to drive.

They don’t speak all the way back, and the silence stays unbroken when they get into the flat. Arthur just takes a pill, closes his door, and sprawls out on the bed with his arms crossed like a dead man. He can’t hold the pose, though; his body wants to curl up, so he does, hugging his knees to his chest, taking up as little space as possible, wishing he could just disappear altogether.

* * *

_Well._ So much for avoiding serious topics. Francis listens at Arthur’s door, but he doesn’t hear any muffled sobs or worse. He hopes Arthur is asleep, to get a break from those horrid thoughts. He didn’t mean for him to get so upset, but God—what kind of human being fucks a rapist? And yet, Francis has to admit, he did witness regret eat Arthur alive in the food court, along with self-hatred of course. _I hate myself._ He has never heard anyone actually say that out loud, let alone roar it for everyone to hear. He’s felt it, plenty of times; he’s always thought it was a feeling that goes beyond words, that lies between teeth, under fingernails, places you can’t scrape it from no matter how hard you scrub. But Arthur, the Omega who can’t even smile for five seconds without covering it up with sarcasm or swearing, let the whole room know what he was feeling. _Go big or go home, I guess._ Francis remembers Arthur’s old refrain: _I only fuck the ones I acquit._ He never thought he was actually serious. If he’d been living deplorably for so long, Francis would probably scream in public, too.

Now, though, he just wants to cheer Arthur up. What’s done is done, and besides—who is _he_ to judge someone for fucking a rapist when he’s an accused rapist himself? He decides to give Arthur space. Leaning against the kitchen counter, he calls Alfred Jones.

“Who’s this?”

“Francis Bonnefoy.”

“Oh, heyo.” Noisy crunching. “What’s up?”

“Well . . . I think I need your help.” He summarizes the meltdown. “Do you have any ideas?”

There’s a long, crunchy pause. Then Alfred says, “I’ll be there in twenty.”

True to his rather distorted word, he arrives after twenty minutes have passed with a duffel bag in hand and sucker in mouth. Francis assumes it’s clothes in the bag, but instead Alfred pulls out—of all things—a microwave, a giant bowl, and three packages of popcorn. Once these have been transferred to the counter, Alfred takes out a _Scrabble_ box and a stack of DVDs, which he puts on the table. Then he takes the sucker from his mouth and asks, “Has he said anything yet?”

The juxtaposition of such a serious face and such a colorful lollipop leaves Francis momentarily at a loss for words, but it doesn’t matter much. The bedroom door opens, revealing a dull-eyed Arthur.

“Hey there, hurricane,” Alfred says. “What are you doing, relaxing on your day off? Get to work.”

“Fuck off,” Arthur says, but it’s a sad, raspy attempt. He clears his throat. “Did you find anything at the church?”

“Let’s not talk about the case for a while, it’s a buzzkill.” Alfred squeezes past him and brings an armload of pillows and blankets to the living room, where he efficiently makes a nest on the floor. “C’mon, get your laptop. I brought your favorite movies.”

Arthur steps stiffly to the table. “These are your favorite movies.”

“Okay, I brought your favorite movies to make fun of. Semantics.” He tosses the popcorn into the microwave and smiles at Francis. “You gonna join us for movie night?”

Francis blinks out of his trance, amazed at how easy Alfred draws Arthur from his shell. “Ah—no, I think I’ll just get started on supper. You’re staying, aren’t you?”

Alfred hooks his thumbs into his pockets. “If I’m invited.”

Francis looks over at Arthur, since he probably shouldn’t invite someone to stay for a meal in someone else’s flat. The Omega takes no notice; he’s absorbed in fixing the nest, adjusting the angle of each pillow, kneading them, flipping them, then carefully lying down on his belly and drawing a blanket around himself. Francis doesn’t want to interrupt, because it’s one of the cutest things he’s ever seen in his life—yes, even cuter than the little bear onesie.

“Art,” Alfred says, grinning, “you gonna kick me out if I try to eat here tonight?”

Arthur lifts his head. “I don’t care where you eat.”

“Good enough.” Alfred glances at Francis, shakes his head. “Nobody looks at me like that if _I_ squeeze a pillow, y’know.” The microwave beeps, so he takes the popcorn out, fills up the bowl, and joins Arthur in his perfected nest.

* * *

“Why the heck are you a lawyer?” Alfred asks, holding up a glass to the light and swabbing at a speck with the dish towel. “You should be a chef or something. I’d hire you in a heartbeat, if I had money comin’ outta my ears.”

Francis smiles. His cooking ability is pretty much the only thing he’s sure of these days, but it’s still nice to hear positive feedback. “I like to help people, when I can.” He turns to make sure the bathroom door is still closed, then resumes washing dishes. “Arthur needs more help than I can give, I think.”

“What makes ya say that?”

Francis’s eyes widen in disbelief. “Well, you were so much better with him than me. You made him feel better. All I’ve done is made him worse.”

Alfred sets the glass in the cupboard. “I thought you said you guys were having a good time before Braginski showed his ugly mug.”

“Well—we were, but . . .” Francis shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have let him get so upset.”

“If he’s gonna get upset, he’s gonna get upset,” Alfred says. “Pretty hard to stop the hurricane. Just gotta weather it and clean up once it passes, that’s what I do.”

Francis watches him closely. “Why do you do it?”

Alfred must know he’s hinting at ulterior motives, but he just smiles. “I like helping people, too. That, and he pays most of my bills, so I’m in trouble if I get outta good grace with him.”

Francis picks at a clingy spot on a pan with his nails. “Do you know anything about his life in England? His family?”

“Nah, not really. They were religious and treated him like shit, that’s about all I know. He doesn’t talk to me about that kinda thing.” He smiles, nudging Francis’s side. “That’s what you’re for.”

Just then, Arthur joins them again. Alfred messily folds up the dish towel. “Well, I’d better head home. I hate driving in the dark. All those wise guys who don’t dim their headlights, burns a man’s retinas clean out of his head.”

Arthur’s hands drift upward, but instead of hugging himself with them he just puts them in his pockets. “What did you find in the church?”

The merry light in those blue eyes fades a tad. “Nothing.”

Arthur nods, unsurprised. “Go to the parochial school tomorrow. Talk to the teachers, principal, guidance counselor. Anyone Feliciano might’ve confided in or hinted to. You might find a way into his locker, as well.”

Alfred inclines his head as he zips his duffel bag. “Yessir.” He pauses in the doorway to look over at Arthur. “Hey. Take care of yourself.”

The English Omega’s brow furrows. “I always do.”

Alfred shakes his head. “I said _of_ yourself, not _by_ yourself.”

Arthur’s face contorts a little, either in distrust or distaste.

Alfred shrugs amiably. “I’m just saying, teamwork makes the dream work.” He winks at Francis. “You two kids have a good night.”

Then away he goes, shaking out a bizarre maraca rhythm with the sliding contents inside the _Scrabble_ box.


	8. Warning Shots

Francis wakes up to silent shadows. He lies quite still. Dawn peeking through a window that is not his window no longer prompts disorientation, but this weak light can’t be what dredged him from slumber. Has he slept through his alarm? No, even hungover his alarm gets him up. So, what, then?

A tickle on his arm. He peers through the grey halflight. He’s on his side, and his arm is draped over the pillow wall between his and Arthur’s side. The Omega is curled around his arm, holding it with the graceless grasp of a toddler. _Mon dieu._ Arthur’s breath shifts the hair on his arm, tickling over and over again. Francis doesn’t want to shift away, lest he disturb the fragile peace.

Yesterday’s food court screams echo in the quiet. Such torment, such self-hatred. Francis thinks about Ivan Braginski, broad shoulders squeezed into a suit for his court appearances, and imagines one of those massive hands clamped over Matthew’s mouth. Imagines that same hand wrapped around Arthur’s thigh. Hatred eats him like heartburn. Still, he wonders if he can blame Arthur for it. It feels akin to blaming an alcoholic for getting drunk. Yes, it’s their choice, but . . . it’s the rut they’re stuck in, and if they don’t see a way out, is it truly their fault? _Everything I do makes me hate myself._ He wants that to change. He wants to grab Arthur by the scruff of the neck and, no matter how much he kicks and spits, haul him out of that rut. Arthur might not like it, but it’s for the good of everyone if Arthur’s old wounds are sutured. Better for Arthur, better for Francis, better for anyone who comes across Arthur while he’s on the warpath he’s made of his life.

Suddenly Francis’s phone lights up, fills the bedroom with obnoxious noise. Arthur groans, rolling over to turn it off. Francis watches him rub the sleep out of his eyes and gently says, “Good morning.”

Arthur drops his hands into his lap. His eyes are still a bit bleary. “Good morning.”

“How did you sleep?” Francis asks, basking in the domesticity of it all.

“Fine.” A pause. “You?”

“Good. How do you feel?”

Arthur’s brow lowers on his eyes a little. “I don’t want to talk about yesterday.”

“Okay,” Francis says.

Arthur watches him as if waiting for the acceptance to expire, then heads for the shower. Francis follows suit—after Arthur is finished, obviously—and while Arthur fixes his tea Francis gets himself an apple. _Look at this, routine already._ Francis offers Arthur an apple, and Arthur accepts it without argument. Francis waits (for the expiration of acceptance) but Arthur just takes a bite out of it like it owes him money and walks out of the flat. Not for the first time, Francis wishes he could give that little of a shit, because walking away and knowing someone will follow is an admirable skill. _Do you think I’m going to wander off?_ Arthur had asked. _No,_ Francis could have said, _but I wouldn’t blame you if you did._

They crunch their apples on the ride to the office. Francis wraps his core up in a napkin to be disposed of in the office, but when he offers Arthur one he realizes his apple is completely gone. “Did you eat the whole thing?”

“Yes, I ate breakfast, Francis. Truly you are a gift from God.”

“No, I mean—you ate the seeds?”

“Why not?”

“Well.” Francis wracks his brain for justification. Didn’t his dam always warn him not to eat the seeds? His sire once told him he’d grow a watermelon in his belly after he swallowed a little black seed, which made him cry until his dam prompted an apology. “I don’t know. There must be some reason most people don’t eat them.”

“When was the last time you read an obituary of someone dying of eating an apple seed?”

“When was the last time you read an obituary at all?”

“Don’t be a smartass.”

Francis raises his eyebrows, but Arthur gives no sign of self-awareness here. Miraculous, how blind he can be at times. _Just like everyone else,_ Francis supposes. _Including me._

When they get to the office and Arthur finds his parking spot, he doesn’t get out of the car right away. Instead, he rubs his thumbs over the steering wheel. His words come slowly, creeping warily from between his lips. “You said not to ask you for forgiveness. But you’re not angry at me.”

“No.” Francis is surprised—he thought they weren’t talking about yesterday—but he doesn’t let it show. “I don’t like being angry.”

Exasperation bristles. “You can’t just _choose_ not to feel angry.”

Francis shrugs. “Maybe not. But you can take the feeling apart until it doesn’t bother you so much. That’s what I do.”

Arthur goes quiet for a moment. Francis expects more accusations of his perfection to follow, but none come. “You’re still going back on your word,” Arthur says. “You’re forgiving me.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Francis considers how best to put this, decides to go with the simplest option. “I meant you shouldn’t ask me for forgiveness, when it’s not me you want it from.”

Arthur looks down at his hands, then sighs with something that sounds an awful lot like defeat. “I don’t deserve to forgive myself.”

This sort of attitude shouldn’t count as an improvement, but Francis is glad to at least hear Arthur speaking about these things. The first step is always acknowledging the problem. “Why not?”

Arthur scowls at him. “Why do you think? Look at everything I’ve done.”

“I don’t know everything you’ve done.”

“Well, if you did, you’d be sick.”

The cold certainty does make Francis feel a bit ill, actually. “You are pretty biased against yourself, to be fair. Most people are. I am.”

“Trust me. This isn’t your charming self-deprecation.” Arthur smooths a hand over his already smooth hair. “This is . . . warranted.”

 _Charming?_ “Maybe you need an external view,” Francis suggests.

Arthur scoffs. “And you’re supposed to provide that, are you? You’re biased in favor of me, for whatever reason. Terrible judgement, I assume. Or some misplaced sense of moral obligation.”

“Probably both,” Francis admits. “I just wish you were kinder. To yourself, especially.”

Arthur picks up his travel mug of tea and looks at him with an expression as darkly flat as his tone. “Imagine how I feel about it.”

He gets out of the car. Francis fumbles with his seat belt, hurrying to join him in the cold. “That’s not what I meant—”

The resonant growl of an engine interrupts. Francis steps out of the way of a needlessly souped-up sports car. The driver side window rolls down and Mikkel whistles. “That fender is an eyesore. I hope you sued for damages, Kirkland.”

Arthur smiles, but it’s neither friendly nor amused. “It’s a side project.”

Mikkel nods, unperturbed, then glances at Francis. “What’s that face for?”

Francis realizes he’s been smirking faintly to himself, remembering when he and Antonio used to joke about the Alphas in law school who thought they were so cool when they got noisy, gas-guzzling cars. _Wow, I feel so much respect for him. I bet he gets laid all the time._ “Nothing,” he replies. “Just admiring your rims.”

Mikkel looks at him for a second with those unpredictable eyes, then breaks into a supersize grin. “Yeah, they make the car look faster. Lukas says they’re in bad taste.”

“Nothing bad taste about spinning rims,” Arthur says. “Absolutely not.”

“No,” Francis agrees. “They look—fancy.”

A honking horn has them all looking behind Mikkel’s car. Lars has pulled in behind him. Francis appreciates that he’s driving an electric car, but Mikkel evidently doesn’t as he gets another good roar out of his whip before they park.

Francis and Arthur hasten inside, partly so they won’t have to walk in with the two biggest—in stature and in equity—owners and partly so they won’t have to endure the brisk morning any longer. Francis rubs his arms through his double layer of sweaters and glances over his shoulder to make sure they aren’t being tailed. “Do you know anything about cars?”

Arthur rubs his skeletal fingers. “I know those bloody spinners shouldn’t exist outside of rap videos.”

“Good,” Francis says, resisting the urge to take Arthur’s reddened hands. He’s not sure what he’d do with them, since Arthur would likely jerk free in a second and Francis is just as cold as he is, anyway. _Wanting to help isn’t enough,_ he thinks. _You need a solution, or you don’t count for a thing._ “I’m glad we can agree on that, if nothing else.”

* * *

Every morning since this started, Antonio has left the apartment feeling like he’s forgetting something. He does the same pat-down he always does: wallet, phone, keys. He has his papers. He has his pack of cinnamon gum. It’s only when he goes out the door and instinctively steps aside so a French ghost can walk past him that he remembers what’s missing.

He hates it. Another thing making him feel uncertain about the steps he takes. He’s never wanted to be a slave to routine, but living in a town where the most exciting events are planned well in advance and featured in a circular with large print for the older members of the aging community—it happens whether he likes it or not. He does get shuttled around quite often, to other towns in their legal district, but his day invariably starts with the walk to the office, so he can give Francis company and so he can check in with Lovino. Now he only has half of that, and the commute feels appropriately empty in comparison.

Because of course, Francis isn’t—wasn’t?—a bad person. Antonio wouldn’t have befriended him if he was. When Francis inquired about his ad, he just struck Antonio as one of those _creative_ kids at school who spent lunch period in the art room and never talked to anyone at parties, if they were even invited in the first place. Shy, but not overly awkward—he was quite good at talking, in fact, if you lent him an ear. Antonio loved debating with him, batting sentences back and forth with growing skill so that by the time Gilbert came along he resigned himself to referee and tiebreaker more often than not. Which is, perhaps, why it feels so strange to fight with Gilbert now. It’s not that they haven’t fought before. It’s just that before, when Gilbert joined an argument, Francis took up his place and doused the flames when necessary. Now the fire is liable to burn the whole town to the ground if they’re not careful. If one of them doesn’t give in. _It won’t be me,_ Antonio thinks. _Not while Gil is after Lovi._

Antonio has a smile ready when he opens the door, but only the DA’s secretary is behind the desk. “Morning. Is Lovino here?”

The older Omega gives a _behind you_ nod of the head. Antonio whirls.

Lovino comes in on a gust of cold air. “Sorry,” he says, hanging up his coat. “I was walking Feli to school.”

“It’s okay, I just got here too,” Antonio says. “Feli’s back to school so soon? He’s strong. And so are you,” he adds, catching Lovino gently by the arm to halt him. “You didn’t have to come in today. Are you . . .”

Lovino looks up at him, still a bit out of breath. His cheeks are flushed from the cold air—and, if that delicious scent is to be believed—the warmth rising inside him. Antonio should probably be able to predict when Lovino’s heat cycle will take him away from work, since it’s pretty much settled now, but he’s avoided taking even mental note of it. Something about keeping track of your secretary’s reproductive system seems a bit . . . _uncouth_ to him. Anyway, Lovino always works until the last minute, so this is far from the first time Antonio has breathed in this preheat perfume. It’s a teasing preview of the main event, not as thick but sweeter almost, and it makes Antonio want to take one of Lovino’s delicate wrists and nuzzle into his skin until he can’t get the smell— _Lovi, Lovi, Lovi_ —out of his nose.

“You can go home anytime,” Antonio tells him, once he’s swallowed the drool in his mouth. “If you start feeling, you know . . .”

Lovino nods shortly, to rescue him. “I know. I just don’t want to be home by myself. I want to get work done.” Familiar determination sparks in his hazel eyes. “I want to be useful.”

“Okay. If you’re sure you’re up to it—?” Lovino nods again, firmly, and Antonio smiles. “Let’s get to work.”

* * *

Feliciano has a love-hate relationship with school. Being a foster kid has made his schooling slapdash at best; being moved from place to place, school to school, curriculum to curriculum makes it difficult to get any concrete knowledge base. Harder are the actual relationships, with teachers and with fellow students. Lovino warned him against making friends when they were still wards of the state. _It doesn’t matter if they make you happy now,_ Lovino told him. _We’ll just move again and then they’ll make you sad._ Feliciano couldn’t help it, though; how could you sit next to someone all day long and not smile at them, laugh with them, offer to share snacks with them? They’ve been with Roma for the majority of Feliciano’s life, but he still carries the weight of lost friends with him. It’s less sad, really, that he’s lost track of old friends and more of a shame that if he ever does gain contact with them again, they’ll have changed into different people than those he misses.

Now that he’s found his place in this parochial school, however, he’s amassed a small army of pals. None are any closer than others; some are for sitting next to in class, some for partnering in PE, some for gossiping with in the halls. The school is Omega-only, so any news of potential courtship is all the more delicious. He didn’t think, until he arrived, that his personal tragedy would be such fodder. Unfortunately, it is.

From the moment he parts ways with Lovino— _see you at lunch_ —he knows he’s made a mistake. The younger students simply stare at him, either concerned or fascinated, like he’s a test subject before a crowd of scientists. The Omegas in his grade greet him with identical short tones. _Hi, Feli. Good morning. Hey._ Feliciano tries lingering in some of their clusters, but the conversations just continue, never attempting to include him. When he backs away, the circles close again, effortlessly shutting him out.

He remembers Antonio tripping over the truth of the situation, remembers how it reduced Grampa to pleading. Is he burdening these Omegas with his sadness? Interrupting their day? Should he have stayed home?

“Oh, Feli!” His teacher, one of the kindest and eldest nuns at the school, hurries over to give him a hug. “I’m so sorry this has happened, sweetheart.”

Feliciano returns the embrace, even though his teacher always smells vaguely of pepper. He wonders how it is that everyone in town seems to know what happened to him. Francis’s name was publicly announced, but Feliciano’s wasn’t. Did Dr. Honda tell someone? No, never. Not Gilbert, either, but one of the other policemen? That’s entirely possible. Not that it really matters. What’s the worst that could happen, after what’s already been done?

“If you ever need to step out of class,” murmurs his teacher, “don’t be afraid. You don’t need to ask. Just go.”

Feliciano nods. He can just hear the others whispering behind him. “Thank you.”

Sure enough, when the teacher goes into the classroom, two Omegas come up to Feliciano at his locker. They’re not ones he’s ever been close with; they’re the sort who are here because their parents took them out of public school before they could get pregnant. Feliciano has seen them smoking in the trees at lunchtime. He knows Lovino would mock him for it, but he backs away from the rebellious Omegas. They exchange a pleased smile.

“Is it true?” one of them asks in an undertone. “Did you have sex?”

“What was it like?” the other demands. “Did you _come_?”

Feliciano opens his mouth, but no words offer themselves. His throat feels clogged.

“You can tell us,” says the first, as if they’re long-time confidants.

“Yeah,” says the second. “We won’t judge like everybody else.” A dreamy look. “I wouldn’t mind if Francis Bonnefoy raped me.”

It’s going to be a long day.

* * *

The principal is the only Alpha in the parochial school, and it definitely smells like it. When Alfred walks in, he’s hit with a wall of hormones from sixty growing Omegas. _Wow._ It brings him right back to middle school, when each day was a countdown of which Omega would bloom into puberty next. He can’t remember a single thing from seventh grade math. And as far as changing for gym is concerned . . . well, let’s just say even when he did know an answer, he pretended he didn’t so he could keep his textbook planted firmly on his lap.

“Good morning,” the principal says. He’s got that same middle-aged paunch Alfred lives in fear of inheriting from his sire. “Who are you?”

“Detective Jones,” he replies with a cordial smile. “Just here to ask a couple questions about Feliciano Vargas, if that’s okay.”

The principal gives a sorrowful nod and gestures for Alfred to sit across from his desk. “You work with Detective Beilschmidt?”

Private detectives aren’t allowed to state or imply that they are part of a police force, but if Alfred couldn’t talk circles around people he wouldn’t be getting paid by Arthur Kirkland. “On some cases, I do.” Which is true; Gilbert has taken Alfred onto a case as a consultant exactly twice. “I’m wondering, did Feliciano give any sign that something had happened to him? Before the truth came to light, I mean.”

The principal shakes his head. “No. Feliciano didn’t come to school on Friday.” He leans closer, eyes wide. “I understand that’s when it was reported?”

 _I wonder how you understand that._ He suspects it’s a web woven by every spider in town who happened to see Feliciano walking into the police station. Irrelevant, now. He writes it down in his little notepad: _ABSENT FRIDAY._ “He wasn’t quieter than usual? He didn’t act out, even? Sometimes that happens, in younger victims.”

“No, no, nothing like that. He was just the same Feli we all know and love.”

 _CELEBRITY._ He wonders if that’s a testament to Feliciano’s personality or if it’s just ass-kissing for all the donations Roma Vargas makes to the school. “I see. And Francis Bonnefoy was never mentioned?”

The principal looks aghast. “No. What are you suggesting?”

“Nothing,” Alfred replies, flipping shut his notepad with another smile. “Just formalities, you know how it is. I’m wondering if you could point me to Feliciano’s teacher? I expect I’ll get the same answers, but we gotta tick all the boxes.”

Alfred is led down a wall lined with lockers. They’re all floor-to-ceiling here; in his school, the lockers were half this size and whatever Alpha was unfortunate enough to get the bottom one had to put his combination in with Mr. Top Locker’s groin in his face. Not a problem that kept Alfred up at night—well, that is, not one that troubled him—but one that sparked many a conflict among kids with surging testosterone. Half the time you could hardly get through the halls without suffering collateral damage—unless you were an Omega. Then everyone was too busy flexing to worry about locker hierarchy. Alfred never really got the appeal of those widening hips, but at least all the slathering gave him an idea of who was left for him to flirt with.

“Detective Jones,” he says when the teacher joins him in the hall. “Just hoping to get some information on Feliciano?”

The teacher blinks. He’s the type of Omega Alfred expects to see with a shawl around his shoulders—but then again, that’s probably because he’s a nun. He has the full get-up on, black and white with the veil and everything. He looks out of place in this school, which is pretty much the same as any other aside from the religious quotes on the walls and crosses everywhere. “He’s in class right now, I can get him—”

“No, no,” Alfred says quickly. “I want to know if Feliciano might have told you anything that relates to the case. Students confide in teachers sometimes, you see.”

The teacher purses his lips. “Well . . . no, he’s never told me anything that troubled me. Certainly nothing so serious. And I would have told the police immediately, if he had. I’m obligated to do that.”

“Of course.” He doesn’t take the notepad out yet, since it tends to unnerve some folks. “Did you notice any sudden change in behavior in him? Late homework, maybe?”

“No!” The Omega’s eyes look even wider behind those round glasses. “No, never. Feliciano is a wonderfully well-behaved student. He’s never passed something in late. His marks aren’t always straight A . . . but he’s such a kind soul, God bless his heart.” His whimsical expression darkens. “The sort of person easily taken advantage of. It’s such a shame.”

Alfred is inclined to agree. One way or another, all of this is a big fat shame. “Now, this next question—I have to be honest with you, I don’t see the point in asking it.” Lie. “But, you know how it is. The boss makes the decisions and I’m just the messenger.” Truth, more or less. “Did Feliciano ever talk about having a crush? Or courting?”

The teacher’s brow furrows. “Why, no. I understand the good Reverend has been searching for a suitable Alpha for Lovino, but not for Feliciano. He’s too young, yet.”

“Of course,” Alfred says again. “But I’m sure even faithful young Omegas develop harmless crushes? On actors in a movie, or singers, that kind of thing.”

“Well, maybe on singers. All the students go through different bands so quick, it’s impossible to keep track of which one is _in_.” The teacher shrugs. “But it’s not encouraged. Some of the lyrics are inappropriate for school.”

“Kids these days,” Alfred agrees solemnly. “Do you think it would be worth looking into Feliciano’s locker?”

Now the teacher looks bewildered. “I don’t know. Why would you need to? He hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“No, but any bit of evidence we can use is helpful.”

“Well, I’ll get him, then—”

Alfred holds out a hand, but doesn’t touch; it feels against the rules, touching the black habit. “That’s alright. Does the principal have all the combinations? I’ll just get it from him. I think Feli’s had enough attention on him.” He holds a hand over his heart. “I’ll leave it just the way I found it, promise.”

The teacher hesitates, then nods. “Alright. But do it quickly. The recess bell will ring shortly.”

“Greased lightning,” Alfred says cheerfully, and heads back to the principal’s office.

* * *

Feliciano’s plan is simple: hurry out of class ahead of everyone else and sit on the swing set with a book. Only the younger students ever sit on the swings, and the book—combined with the damaged aura that seems to hover over him like a storm cloud—should keep conversation at bay. For once, he doesn’t want to talk to anyone. He doesn’t want to be accepted. He just wants to exist on the outskirts and be left alone.

He doesn’t have time to eat a snack, but he doesn’t care. He feels too disgusting to eat, anyway.

Unfortunately, one of the other teachers stops him to offer condolence— _God has never stopped protecting you, Feli_ —and by the time he gets clear, most of the students are already outside. When he gets to the swings, all three are taken. He settles for sitting down in the gravel, little white and grey stones, put there to soften any accidental landings. _Criss-cross applesauce,_ he thinks, reminded of an elementary school teacher who gave out applesauce and animal crackers once a week.

“You shouldn’t be able to do that.”

Feliciano looks up before he can stop himself.

The two Omegas who accosted him in the hall are sneering down at him. “If you were really raped, you’d be too sore to sit like that.”

Feliciano’s face burns. He stands up slowly, because Lovino always told him he needs to stand up for himself more. “Leave me alone. You never picked on me before. You never even talked to me, before.”

Both pairs of dark eyes narrow at him. “Well, why are you even here? Shouldn’t you be at home? You’d think you’d be upset, if you really were raped.”

“You should still be in the hospital,” the other Omega says. “You probably just did this for attention.”

Tears gather in Feliciano’s eyes, and sobs burn their way up his throat, but he fights to stay mostly composed. Oh, he wishes his brother was here to save him from this nightmare. He doesn’t know anything about—anything. What is he supposed to say? How do you fight? He’s never had to. Lovino has always been the sharp one.

He starts to walk away, but they step in his path. Neither of them have lifted any hands or thrown any insults, but he knows the second it comes he’s going to collapse into a weeping, possibly wailing mess, and how will he ever come back from that?

“Hey.” All three Omegas turn to see an Alpha striding over to them. Not the principal, but a twenty-something Feliciano has never seen before. With his blond hair and blue eyes, he looks like a Prince Charming from a fairy tale, and for all the rough-and-tumble posturing of Feliciano’s antagonizers, both of them fall into coy poses when the Alpha nears. “What’s happening over here?”

Feliciano still can’t speak. One of the Omegas replies, “Oh, we’re just talking. What are you doing here?”

“Meddling,” says the Alpha. With his hands in his pockets and that charming smile on his face, it’s hard to see him as a figure of authority. Still, something about the way he’s angled between Feliciano and the dastardly duo makes them shy back a bit. “Seems like a lot of that going around, huh?”

Now they’re reduced to evasive, vaguely apologetic mumblings. The Alpha’s smile doesn’t move an inch. “The other side of the playground looks like a lot of fun.”

The hint is swiftly taken. Now the Alpha turns to Feliciano. “You okay?”

Feliciano sniffles. “Yes.” His throat doesn’t ache now, but his eyes are still wet. “Who are you?”

“Alfred Jones,” he replies. “Nice to meet you.”

 _No, it’s not._ He remembers the name, dropping from Antonio’s lips with almost the same disdain as the name of his employer. “You work for Mr. Kirkland.”

If Alfred is surprised, he doesn’t show it. His smile slips a little, not like it’s fading, but like it’s settling into his face, becoming genuine. “That’s right.”

Feliciano knows Alfred is here to get information that Arthur will try to use against him, and he knows that Antonio will be angry when—if—he learns of this encounter. Feliciano hopes Lovino advises him to keep it secret, because he doesn’t like seeing Antonio upset. Or anyone, for that matter.

“Where . . .” Feliciano clears his throat lightly. “Where are you going next?”

A slight furrow in Alfred’s brow. “Just back to town. Why?”

Feliciano swallows his shame; it goes down thick and bitter as bile. “Can you take me home?”

* * *

Antonio is waiting in view of the courthouse doors, but he doesn’t need to be; he’d still be able to hear Arthur Kirkland storming across the old wood floors, and Francis scurrying after him. Antonio sees Francis’s lips moving and hears a low murmur, presumably some attempt at mollification. Then Arthur sees Antonio, and it’s like a dart to a board. Or a missile to an enemy tank, if missiles and tanks were unable to be too loud lest they disturb the current case going on in the courtroom.

“What the fuck is this?” he hisses. “Don’t you have enough going for you already?”

Antonio stands up, but Arthur shows no sign of caring that he’s the shortest in attendance, perhaps because Francis is acting like he’s three inches tall. “You’d rather make life harder for a rape victim? That’s nice.”

“Oh, shut _up._ I’m not making anything harder, you’re trying to put on a performance for the jury.” His voice has risen enough that a passing bailiff pauses; at a nudge from Francis, Arthur turns and flicks a hand at the broad-shouldered Alpha. “Yes, we’re fine, carry on.”

Antonio remembers the DA warning him against hysterics. _I’m not the one to worry about, Basch._ “You don’t even know what I’m asking for, Kirkland.”

“I’m sure it’ll piss me off,” Arthur remarks, arms crossed, then turns on Francis. _“What?”_

Francis leans close to whisper something into Arthur’s ear. Antonio can’t hear it, but the intimacy of it—for whatever reason, it prickles across Antonio’s skin. He assumes it’s because Arthur’s been the enemy for so long, and to see someone who used to wear his team colors standing so close to the enemy just feels wrong. Whatever he says has Arthur going still, and studying Francis with narrowed eyes when he pulls back. The French Alpha raises entreating eyebrows and Arthur relents, half-turning away to take some deep breaths.

Antonio stares at them both, but it’s Francis he addresses: “Something wrong?”

Francis’s eyes brighten with a rueful sort of pain. “Something is a bit of an understatement, mon copain.”

Antonio feels a crossroads splinter inside him. It’s been easy to lose himself in the storm of anger and betrayal these past few days, but now that he’s standing in front of the Alpha he’s been losing sleep over . . . he doesn’t know what to feel. He tries to ignite the rage again, just so he has something to orient himself, but the flames fall to ash. Even the term of affection—this is a rapist, calling him his friend—just feels like it always used to. Something so familiar he hardly even notices it, not the stinging ant he expected it to be.

“I’m not your copain,” he says, even though all three of them can hear the uncertainty. He sounds like an actor on a stage, and a poor one at that.

Francis just gives a little sigh and a glum nod. “Oui.”

The opening of the courtroom doors interrupts them. A handful of people walk out, one of them staring at Francis and another grimacing at Arthur. Arthur scowls at them both. Antonio knows they’re next on the docket, so he goes in first and lets Arthur and Francis follow him in. The gallery has a few people in it, some for upcoming trials, some just because they apparently have nowhere better to be on a Monday morning.

Berwald Oxenstierna is the presiding judge, and Antonio can’t help but feel a little nervous at the sight of the intimidating Alpha. He might be sitting at the bench, but he’s still above everyone else, and those cold blue eyes are staring at him over his reading glasses. This idea sounded a lot better when he was looking at Lovino.

“Good morning, counselors,” Berwald says as they take their places at the tables. “Let’s keep this short and sweet. What is it you’re looking for, Mr. Carriedo?”

In a voice that deep, it’s like God is speaking to him. “A motion of accommodations, Your Honor. My client, Feliciano Vargas, has social anxiety. Having to speak in front of so many people will be emotionally difficult for him. I’d like to request that his brother be allowed to sit beside him when he takes the stand.”

“I see. Does the defense have anything to say?”

 _“Yes,”_ Arthur bursts out, rising sharply to his feet. “First of all, I’d like to see a written diagnosis of anxiety.”

 _You’d see it before I would, considering you have his transcripts,_ Antonio thinks, but he keeps his words clear of growls. “He hasn’t been diagnosed and he doesn’t take medication, Your Honor. It’s also to give moral support when facing his alleged abuser.”

“For another thing, the witness stand is set apart from other people for a reason. With all due respect, Your Honor, Lovino could very well be whispering to his brother, or writing him notes, or communicating through even subtler means.” Arthur lifts his hands. “I don’t think that’s a conspiracy theory.”

“My client and his brother are both familiar with the rules of a courtroom,” Antonio retorts. Probably not true for Feliciano, but it will be by the time of the trial. He appreciates that even Arthur acknowledges that he’s grasping at straws. “Neither intend to break them.”

Berwald regards them both thoughtfully. “Hmm. It wouldn’t be sufficient to put up a screen between Mr. Vargas and the defendant?”

Antonio is pleased to see Arthur cringing in the corner of his eye. _See, I’m being lenient, Kirkland._ Two Omega brothers holding hands on the stand is one thing to a jury; a whimpering Omega unable to speak without something to block his sight from Francis Bonnefoy is another entirely. “No. It’s the presence of another person, a familiar person, that will help Feliciano.”

“I see.” Berwald adjusts his glasses, then clasps his fingers together. “I have no issue with softening the blow of this trial for the victim—within reason. However, I also share Mr. Kirkland’s concern that this will jeopardize the legitimacy of Mr. Vargas’s testimony. So I will allow his brother to join him on the stand, but they are to have no communication whatsoever. No speaking, no writing, no other form. They will have to wait until recesses are called if they need to speak to each other. And if you believe your client is emotionally overwhelmed, Mr. Carriedo, you may request a recess so he can compose himself.”

Antonio smiles. Victory, bright and tangy as orange juice. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

Berwald sits back a bit in his chair. “Anything else?”

Arthur shakes his head. “No, Your Honor.”

The English Omega looks so petulant Antonio half-expects him to push over his chair on the way out. He’s beaten Arthur before, but this one has certainly been the swiftest. This is also the prologue to the most serious case they’ve done together. No larceny or vandalism this time. Even without Francis’s involvement, these are the highest stakes Antonio has dealt with when facing the redcoat.

Walking down the courthouse steps, he passes by Arthur and Francis. He hears Arthur muttering some curse words, followed by a soothing tone from Francis. It’s the same tone Francis has used to comfort Antonio countless times over the years.

 _Don’t._ He can’t be biased in favor of the defendant. That’s not how this works.

Litigating against your best friend was never covered in law school.

“Carriedo.”

Antonio stops at the bottom of the steps, turns.

Arthur looks down at him, a storm in his eyes. “Any news on the kit?”

“Not yet.” He hasn’t turned over any exculpatory evidence yet, mostly due to superstition. If he gives Arthur what he believes to be everything that doesn’t incriminate Francis before the rape kit comes back, he just _knows_ he’ll get bad news from the kit report. So he’s holding off. “You’ll know when it comes in, regardless of what’s in it.”

Arthur scowls. “How considerate of you.”

Antonio lets a delicious smirk curl his lips. “I live to please, Kirkland.”

Then he turns on his heel, for once enjoying the cool breeze tousling his hair.

* * *

_Stupid, slimy, silver-tongued Spaniard._ Arthur could spit. Francis’s attempts to placate— _at least they can’t write each other notes_ —do little more than add tinder to the fire. All other cases he’s done with Oxenstierna the presiding judge have led him to believe the Swedish Alpha is one of the most objective justices in the district. But here he is _softening the blow_ of the normal litigation process? He hasn’t even _met_ Feliciano Vargas to know how anxious he is. Arthur’s heart races every time he addresses a jury for his closing statement, but does he get someone to cuddle for support? No. Not that he’d want it, anyway. But still. _Fuck’s sake._

After the hearing, they have a bit of time to kill before the lunch date with Lovino Vargas. At Francis’s suggestion, they get sandwiches from the deli—Arthur doesn’t particularly like the taste of his but he takes vicious chomps out of it anyway, imagining the tomato slices are gore torn from Antonio’s neck—and then buy some more scones from the bakery. Francis also purchases three cookies, one of which he eats and another he offers to Arthur.

He raises a skeptical brow. “I thought you wanted me to eat healthy.”

Francis smiles with crumbs still stuck to his lips, his free hand cupped beneath his mouth to catch them. “Cookies are for mental health.”

Arthur suspects if he started stress-eating he’d outgrow his suits within the year, but he will admit the white chocolate chips and soft macadamia nuts do lift his spirits a bit. “You and Jones share that philosophy.”

“Great minds think alike.”

Arthur snorts. “Wait ’til he’s here to suck him off, he’ll appreciate it more.”

Francis’s brow crinkles a little, so Arthur says, “Don’t worry, you’re not his type.”

Instead of relieved, if anything Francis looks disappointed. But he keeps the conversation going. “What is his type?”

“Tall, dark, and handsome salary,” Arthur replies, and brushes the crumbs from his fingers before turning the key in the ignition. “He’s never introduced anyone to me, but I’ve seen him trying to flirt in bars.”

“Trying?” Francis twists to deposit the scones and remaining cookie (property of their current topic of conversation) in the backseat. “That doesn’t sound very generous.”

“Neither does he when he’s doing it. It’s quite the sight to behold. Sometimes he slips into this ridiculous Southern drawl, as if that will improve his chances. He’s never gotten any takers, not when I’ve been round to see it.”

He catches Francis quirking an eyebrow and snaps, “And no, it wasn’t because of me, thank you.”

“I never said anything! I never said a word.”

“You were thinking it.” But Francis is smiling, and Arthur finds that he is, too. A French Alpha nullifies the damage done by a Spanish Alpha, who would’ve thought. “We used to tag team, in fact.”

“Really?” Francis looks fascinated. “Do you have a better batting record?”

“Of course I did. Statistics are in my favor. What is it, one in ten?”

“Less than that, I think.” Francis has a bit of distaste in his voice, and Arthur knows it’s because he’s thinking about Arthur spending the night with Alphas like Braginski. He doesn’t want to talk or think about that, either, so he abandons the nattering altogether.

Gilbert’s car is waiting for them at the DA office. Arthur parks beside him and they all get out at the same time, like this is a hostage trade-off. Arthur keeps space between himself and Gilbert, not because he’s intimidated but because he hates having to tip his head back so much to meet the German Alpha’s gaze. (A problem easier fixed by simply not challenging him, but where’s the fun in that?) “You two should stay here, don’t you think?”

Gilbert shakes his head. “A little stroll never hurt anyone.”

“Well.” Arthur waits for both Alphas to recall the circumstance of this alleged tragedy before continuing, “I don’t care what you do, but it better not come back to me.”

“It won’t, don’t worry.” Gilbert is surprisingly earnest with the assurance, but Arthur supposes it’s not something to take lightly. He can’t really imagine the red-eyed beast smiling. “We won’t be gone long.”

“I doubt this will take more than fifteen minutes.” Arthur glances at Francis just to make sure . . . well, he’s not sure what he’s making sure of, but he doesn’t see any signs of strife, so he gives his client a nod of farewell and heads into the office.

It reminds him of a cheap hotel, the way the secretaries are hidden behind that high counter. Densen & van den Berg’s corral of manicured Omegas is the complete opposite. Arthur walks up to the front desk and feels like he should ring a bell. Basch Zwingli’s secretary is on the phone, but Lovino is typing away at a keyboard. He looks up when Arthur clears his throat.

“A word?” Arthur asks, with much less toxicity than he could, after the food court yesterday and the actual court this morning. He can be civil, when necessary. What is a lawyer, after all, if not an actor?

Lovino rolls his chair back but doesn’t stand. “I don’t have to talk to you.”

Arthur’s lip quirks at the hint of uncertainty. “No, of course not. But I just thought it might be easier for you, less stressful, if you know what I plan on asking you ahead of time.”

It takes a moment, but the Italian Omega acquiesces. They move to a bench seat beside the window; the glass is still frosted because the building faces west. The window fogs immediately where Lovino’s hand touches it. Arthur notices then how uncomfortable Lovino looks in his blouse and slacks, the way he keeps shifting as if his clothing is sticking to his skin.

“A bit hot in here, do you find?” he says mildly.

Lovino’s eyes narrow. “It’s fine.”

Arthur leaves it. None of his business. If this chit thinks it advisable to work while he’s clearly in the throes of pre-heat, that’s his decision. Personally, Arthur finds it hard enough to be taken seriously with the normal Omega-scent clinging to his neck and wrists, let alone with this yeasty musk as well. Not to mention when the cramps eat him alive . . .

“We’ll make this short and sweet, shall we?” he says, reminded of Judge Oxenstierna. “Did you know Feliciano was out by himself that night?”

Lovino crosses his arms over his chest. “No. I was asleep. I only woke up when he got back.”

“Did he tell you he’d been raped that night?”

A slight arch of a fine eyebrow. “Did he tell me, or did he tell me that night?”

“Did he tell you that night.” _Cheek._ Still, good to run into this now; he makes a note of minding the phrasing there, so he can streamline it for the jury.

“Yes, he did. I told him he should go to the police, but he didn’t want to. I told him the same thing the next morning.” He takes a raspy breath that, this time tomorrow, will be laced with a needy whimper. “I didn’t convince him until that afternoon.”

“Why didn’t he want to go to the police?”

Lovino shrugs, fingering one of his faux pearl buttons.

“Did he tell you?” Arthur presses.

“No.” Lovino’s gaze, hazel on steroids, watery and _bright_ as his body comes alive with hormones, snaps up to meet Arthur’s. “He just cried, mostly. He was upset. Wouldn’t you be?”

A classic reversal that Arthur ignores. “But surely he would know that it’s best to report an assault immediately after it happens.”

“I told him to—”

“And he should’ve listened to you, don’t you think?” Arthur soaks sympathy into his words. “Since you’re his big brother. He probably listens to most things you say, right?”

Lovino stands up on unsteady legs. “No. Nobody listens to me.” His glare is admirable, in that state. “I don’t know why I thought you’d be any different.”

“Quite honestly, Mr. Vargas?” He rests an ankle on the opposite knee, claiming the bench seat as his own. “I’ve no idea, either.”

* * *

“It’s just slow,” Gilbert says. They’re halfway around the park, holding cups of hot chocolate that Francis finds a little overly sweet but not bad. “I don’t want to scare him away before his birthday.”

Francis nods slowly. Neither of them actually said they’d pretend the allegations don’t exist, but that’s what they’re doing. He’s not complaining. “It’s obvious he loves you. You were the only one he’d talk to when he first reported it. Remember how you had to convince him to talk alone with me?”

Inwardly, he cringes at his own words. Gilbert spent twenty minutes telling Matthew how trustworthy Francis is, how he’d never hurt a fly, how he won’t do anything against Matthew’s will. And now here he is, under supervision because he isn’t trusted. He can almost understand Arthur’s point of view: _If you were drunk, you shouldn’t feel guilty._ But even if he would never do something like that in his right mind, it still means he can’t trust himself.

For whatever reason, Gilbert sticks with their lie and ignores the subtext of Francis’s words. “I know he loves me.” He’s stifling a grin, Francis can tell; his words are warped a bit by his swelling happiness. “But I don’t want him to become obsessed, you know? I don’t want him to be reliant on me.” His levity falls. “If something happens to me, I don’t want him to be left all alone.”

What thoughts to be having. How long has Gilbert been thinking about this? Francis wishes he could assure him that if anything happened to Gilbert— _God forbid, mon ami_ —he’d be there to protect Matthew, from others and himself. But Matthew may never speak to him again. He’s barely a phantom of a friend, now. “He wouldn’t be all alone. Toni would be there for him.”

Gilbert’s mouth twists in a very complicated way. “Toni . . .”

Then, as if invoked by his name, the Spanish Alpha steps out of the deli, spots them, and strides across the street. “Where’s Kirkland?”

Even though Antonio is addressing Gilbert, Francis still finds himself unable to look directly at Antonio. There’s so much energy crackling around him, it’s like staring into the sun.

“Talking with Lovino,” Gilbert replies, because Francis can’t speak to his accuser’s lawyer without his own present.

Antonio goes very still, eyes wide with concern and something like fear. “Why didn’t you tell me this was happening?”

Gilbert sighs, but not unkindly. “Because he’s not your client, he’s a witness.”

Antonio doesn’t grace them with a response. He takes off just shy of a sprint, with Gilbert and Francis running after him. This reminds Francis, inexplicably, of Antonio’s twenty-sixth birthday. It was Gilbert’s idea to prank him; Francis hadn’t thought it would actually work, since Gilbert hadn’t met them when they were in law school, so wouldn’t he realize it wasn’t real when he woke up to them both crying _Toni you slept in it’s exam day get up!_ But he’d believed it and then some, tearing around the apartment and cursing in Spanish at Francis when he tried to tell him it was Sunday. Only when he heard Gilbert dying of laughter on the sofa did he realize this was a backhanded birthday present, and the swearing had continued in Spanish and English until Francis brought out the cake.

They all burst into the office. The warm air hits them and, with it, the sweet, familiar scent of an Omega in pre-heat. It takes Francis a second to get himself back on track and take in the room with his eyes, not his nose. Arthur is standing up from the window seat and Lovino is hugging himself in the center of the room, eyes bright. Is he crying? Francis can’t see before Antonio goes over to him, murmuring reassurances. Then he turns around, blocking view of the Italian Omega and growling at Arthur.

Another growl drowns out Antonio’s, and with a jolt Francis realizes it’s coming from himself. When Antonio bares his teeth at Francis, he edges closer to Arthur, shoulders as squared as they can get. He’s not used to acting so savage, but his body wants him to, and it feels surprisingly . . . good.

“Alright.” Gilbert steps between them, casting a disapproving red gaze over them all before pinning Arthur with it. “Take him out of here, before this gets ugly.”

Francis finds himself only falling silent when Arthur drags him out by the arm. “Stop it,” the English Omega snaps. “You’re not that kind of Alpha. Don’t act like one.”

Francis stops him at the car. “I’m not _what_ kind of Alpha?”

Arthur releases him. “The kind that throws his weight around and growls at people like an idiot.” He gestures to the office. “Doesn’t a scene like that make you wonder why the world thought Alphas should be in charge of everything? Neither of you said a word. You probably would’ve started _biting_ each other if someone hadn’t stepped in, for God’s sake. I swear, you’re just animals.”

Francis opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. “Well—” He ducks his head a little, mumbling, “He started it.”

“Really.” Arthur crosses his arms over his chest, incredulous.

Francis smooths his sleeve where Arthur’s grasp wrinkled it. “I just . . .” Honesty feels the best route, perhaps because he’s still being influenced by those carnal instincts. That’s a point in favor of animals, at least: they might be violent, but they don’t lie. “I wanted to protect you.”

Arthur stares at him, face clear now. Francis barely saw it in the moment, but now he remembers the intimidation he glimpsed in those green eyes when Antonio turned on him. Thinking about it stirs the same feeling, though less intense: an internal urging to protect, keep safe, defend and avenge. If this is how Alpha soldiers feel, he finally understands how someone could voluntarily serve.

“Well.” Arthur’s brow is low on his eyes again, posture stiff with irritation. “Don’t waste your breath or your time. I can protect myself.” He unlocks his car and turns away to get in the driver’s seat. “I already told you. You have better things to worry about than me.”

Francis grabs the door handle, but pauses, looking over the top of the car toward the office. Antonio, Lovino, and Gilbert are still inside. Talking about him, probably. Arguing, possibly. Helplessness: he’s driven a rift between his best friends, and he can’t do anything to seal it back up. He can only wait.

He gets into the car. In his opinion, Arthur is the perfect thing to worry about while they both bide their time.

* * *

Alfred drops Feliciano off before lunchtime. They stopped at the bakery on the way—always strange, to see the town in the middle of the day, still there even though most people are at work—and Alfred bought Feliciano a sweet cinnamon pretzel. _Nothing better to drown your sorrows in than pretzels. Well, and cake. And muffins. And cookies . . ._ Feliciano did enjoy listening to Alfred list all the lovely things he likes to eat, because it’s such an inoffensive topic and Alfred speaks with such an amiable voice. He did worry a bit about getting into Alfred’s car, but the Alpha looks at him like someone might look at a cat. Well, someone who likes cats. It’s refreshing after the crushing concern from Roma and his teachers, and the nastiness from his peers. Alfred just treats him like a normal person.

When he gets out of the car, Alfred rolls down his window. “You all good here?”

Feliciano turns, clutching the paper bag his pretzel waits in. “I have a key.”

Alfred’s expression softens. “I mean, by yourself. That wasn’t very nice of those Omegas.”

“You . . . you heard what they said?”

A little shrug. “More or less.” He regards him kindly. “People can say some pretty awful stuff, but you gotta shut it all out. If you start to let it in, sooner or later you’ll believe it. And that’s no good.”

Feliciano chews his lip, then offers, “They smoke at school. Those Omegas.”

“See? You can’t trust somebody with judgement that bad.”

It’s tiny, but Feliciano smiles.

Alfred smiles, too, much larger. “I better get going. Enjoy the pretzel, kiddo.”

Then he rolls up his window and drives away. Feliciano chews his pretzel, for once not caring about getting crumbs on the couch, and texts Lovino. **_I’m home._ ** He’s surprised when a response comes quickly; normally Lovino is reluctant to use his phone at work. **_Be there in 20._ **Feliciano waits for questions or protests, but nothing else comes.

Antonio’s car pulls into the driveway twenty minutes later. It sits motionless for another minute, then Lovino gets out. Feliciano watches out the window: Antonio waits until Lovino is inside before he leaves. Lovino collapses on the sofa beside Feliciano, his coat unzipped but still caught on his arms.

“Lovi,” Feliciano says, sympathetic. “You look terrible.”

“Thanks.” Lovino rolls his eyes. He’s so flushed he looks like one of those old-fashioned Omegas with white skin and rouged cheeks. “How did you get home? And _why_ are you home?”

Feliciano chews his lip again, tastes blood this time. “The principal,” he replies. “I wasn’t ready to go to school. Some of them weren’t really nice to me.” He breaks off a bit of pretzel. “He got me this. Want some?”

Lovino groans and turns his face away. “God, no. I can’t eat right now. I came home because I feel so gross.”

Feliciano knows what that means for Lovino, and—worse—he knows what that means for himself. But he doesn’t let himself think about the consequences just yet. “Lovi, I don’t want Grampa to know I came home early. He’ll get upset.”

Lovino rubs a hand down his face and fixes a weary stare on his brother. “Okay, Feli. Okay.” He offers a hand, and Feliciano twines their pinkies eagerly. “It’s our secret.”

* * *

Francis takes the couch. Alfred takes Arthur’s chair. So Arthur paces the length of his office.

“Feli’s the black sheep of the school now,” Alfred says, swiveling back and forth. “But the staff all love him, so this has probably been a long time coming. I get the feeling they favor him a little too much. I searched his locker, by the way. Nada.”

Arthur makes an irritated noise. “Well, whatever’s going on, Lovino definitely has a hand in it. Defensive.”

Alfred gently pokes at the cactus. “So who’s the mastermind? Feliciano or Lovino?”

“Lovino was awfully bothered,” Arthur remarks. “Though he’s probably going into heat as we speak, so take that with a grain of salt.”

“Feliciano was in tears when I came across him earlier,” Alfred counters.

They both turn to Francis, expectant. He sits up straighter, looking between them in alarm. “I shouldn’t be speaking against the victim . . .”

“Hate to break it to you, but you’re the accused.” Arthur’s arms are crossed, which might as well be his default pose at this point. “Your job is to speak against the victim.”

“That’s _your_ job,” Francis says. “Not mine. I might be guilty.”

Arthur’s gaze lifts to the ceiling. “Enough of your sob story. Feel guilty when the judge finds you guilty. Until then, work with me. Does Lovino strike you as a conniving bitch?”

Francis hesitates. “Not really. He’s not the friendliest person in the world, but he always gets his work done on time and he’s even thoughtful sometimes. He’s brought coffee to me and Toni once or twice. We’ve never had any problems with him. He’s just grumpy.”

“Is he strong?”

“One of the strongest Omegas I know,” Francis confirms. _Not as strong as you._

“So maybe he’s the one who came up with the whole thing, then.”

“Or maybe Feliciano did,” Alfred puts in, crossing his ankles on a corner of the desk and ignoring Arthur’s dagger eyes. “It’s always the one you least expect, right?”

“Sure, in films,” Arthur snaps. “Do you see any actors?”

“I dunno,” Alfred says easily. His smile is genuine as he glances at Francis, but the glance is the important detail.

Francis goes quiet, looking down at his lap—but lifts his head again when Arthur says with conviction, “He’s not lying about the forgetting. I can tell that much. If you think _that_ is an Alpha who would knowingly assault someone, I’m firing you right now. I’ll find someone with better eyes.”

Alfred studies Francis for fifteen seconds with an unfamiliar methodical coldness. Then his mirth returns as if it had never left. “Sorry. I’d offer you half my cookie as a peace offering if I hadn’t eaten it already.”

“That’s okay,” Francis says. “I appreciate the thought.”

“I know you’re not that kinda guy,” Alfred adds. “We just gotta think about everything, you know?”

Francis nods. “Process of elimination.”

Arthur is pacing again. “Really, it doesn’t matter who’s in charge of this whole thing. It’s Carriedo’s job to prove you’re guilty, not my job to prove the Italians are lying.”

Which is true. The prosecution has the burden of proof. That’s early days law school. “So do you have enough to put significant holes in his arguments?”

Abruptly, Arthur stills. “Time will tell.”

Francis’s eyes widen, and Alfred’s feet hit the floor as he sits up. “The hurricane’s gonna blow in on a whim and a prayer?”

“No.” Arthur adjusts his cuffs. “When the rape kit comes back, I’ll know how deep I need to cut.”

Alfred shakes his head. “I think you should go for the throat on this one regardless, Art.”

“No.” Arthur and Alfred both look at him. Francis lifts his chin. “Don’t tear him down like you did to Matthew. I don’t want that. No Omega deserves that.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Not even a liar who could send you wrongfully to prison?”

Francis smiles ruefully. “Innocent until proven guilty, right?”

That shuts Arthur up. Gently, Francis says, “Not just for me. For you, Arthur. You don’t enjoy it, do you? It doesn’t make you feel good.”

Green eyes find the floor. Alfred watches him, concern furrowing his forehead. Francis ignores the temptation to keep talking, just leaves his words to hang like Christmas lights in the air.

Finally, Arthur says, “Fine. I’ll be civil to Feliciano.” He looks over at Francis darkly. “But his brother is fair game.” Francis opens his mouth to protest, but Arthur beats him to it: “He’s one of the strongest Omegas you know, after all. And I’m not letting him get you locked up unless you deserve it.”

Francis stands up, so Arthur has to meet his gaze. “I thought we weren’t supposed to protect each other.”

Arthur’s eyes spark, then narrow. “I’m not protecting you. I’m winning this case and making partner. I don’t care—”

“You two want anything from the vending machine?” Alfred has hopped to his feet and stands in the doorway. “Licorice? Peanuts? Counseling?”

Arthur reclaims his chair. “Take the frog with you. I need to work.”

Alfred beckons goofily, but Francis doesn’t spare him a smile, just walks alongside him. Alfred hums to himself as they go, down the stairs and around a corner. When they reach the vending machine, Alfred scans the gaudily wrapped choices. “Hmm. The great debate, sweet or salty?”

Francis blinks out of an angry reverie. “Sorry?”

Alfred smiles. “Just talking to myself.” He puts in some change, then taps out a code. As he stoops to grab his prize, he says, “Whew, those crazy Omegas, huh? Always saying stuff they don’t mean.”

Francis stares at him. “But Arthur is always so direct.”

“Direct? Sure, on Opposite Day.” Alfred unwraps his chocolate bar, but mercifully waits until his thought is finished before taking a bite. “About little things, sure, he’s direct. But stuff he actually cares about? No way. What’s that word? Bluster. That’s him.” He takes Francis’s thoughtful staring as incomprehension and continues, “You ever see a Chihuahua yapping its head off at a Lab?”

“Yes—”

“But then you take the leash off and it’s all shy sniffing—”

“Yes, I get it.”

Alfred nods. “Oh! Also.” He puts some more change in. “Pick your favorite. This is my belated peace offering.”

Francis regards the rows of saturated fat, then goes for a bag of fruit gummies. They smell like an air freshener, and it takes him right back to middle school; they sold this exact brand in the cafeteria. Imagine, when his biggest worry was whether or not the PE teacher would force him into another humiliating basketball game.

“Time flies,” he says softly.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Alfred agrees. “Look at my forehead. I’m twenty-seven and my freakin’ hair is receding.”

“I couldn’t tell,” Francis offers. “It looks perfectly handsome to me.”

A summer-bright grin. “Aw, thanks.” He takes the last of his chocolate bar into his mouth. “You’re a lot nicer than Art’s other clients.”

“I hope so,” Francis says grimly, and Alfred tips his head back to laugh.

On the way back, they pass a slightly ajar door and pause when Mikkel Densen’s voice cuts through the quiet: _“—any goddamn sense.”_

His mate’s voice comes next, not nearly as loud but just as dignified. _“There’s more to being a lawyer than winning cases.”_

_“He’s not in this for the memories. I’m not, either. Most of us aren’t. He’s a good lawyer, he deserves a promotion.”_

_“Do you see the way he sucks up to you? It’s disgusting.”_

_“Most associates suck up. Sucking up is a good way to get where you want to go. I sucked up when I was in his place. You’d know what it’s like if I hadn’t handed all this to you.”_

Alfred and Francis exchange wide-eyed winces.

_“Excuse me? I’ve worked damn hard to get where I am. Don’t brush that aside and call it nepotism. That’s what everyone else does around here. I don’t need to hear that from someone I love.”_

Then the words drop into unintelligible murmurs. Alfred leans to peek through the tiny crack between door and jamb. His mouth makes an O and he whispers, “Wow, right there on the desk, huh?”

Francis hauls Alfred away by the collar without thinking. He realizes it’s the same thing he’d do to Antonio and lets go, starts an apology, but Alfred’s grinning: “Guess that’s how the other half live, huh? Must be nice.”

Francis knows he means making love on a desk in a fancy office, but he’s thinking about the relationship, the dynamic. Being able to fight, to bare your teeth and curse at someone, and not only being met with just as much furor but all the while resting assured that no one will ever leave, that they’ll kiss and make up by the end and still curl into each other at night.

“Must be nice,” he echoes, and follows Alfred back to Arthur.


	9. Sins of the Fathers

Feliciano’s life has been irrevocably changed this past week, but when he wakes this morning to a bedroom thick with the musky scent of heat, he knows this is the point of no return. Today he will have to face the truth he’s been dreading—and he’ll have to do it without his brother by his side.

He rises slowly. He is free of obligation; the reverend seemed relieved to hear Feliciano admit the night before that he wasn’t ready for school yet. His body must still be used to the routine; he’s up bright and early, and he can hear Roma downstairs, fixing himself some breakfast. He can hear Lovino, too.

His brother is curled into himself beneath the covers, and each breath is raspy, a restless heaving of the lungs, again and again. The first time Feliciano went into heat, they shared a bed, trembling and mewling together, unable to comfort each other in any manner beside the companionship of shared suffering. These days, they stay in their beds, only rising to stagger to the door for water and light foods Roma leaves for them in the hall. Though he’s old enough to have a firm grip on his instincts, the reverend always makes himself scarce when they go into heat. Feliciano suspects it makes him uncomfortable. Most Alphas are like that.

“Lovi,” Feliciano murmurs, edging closer to the bed. “Do you want any breakfast?”

Lovino groans and rolls away. The side of his flushed face glistens with oil and sweat. He used to get acne breakouts when he was Feliciano’s age, something notably absent in most heat fantasies. Though it would make the nuns faint, Feliciano has seen those erotic films they show on television in the fuzzy hours between midnight and dawn. It was by accident, the first time, sneaking down while Roma and Lovino slept to surf through muted channels. Then he returned to it every now and again, when he felt a swell of loneliness inside him that nothing else would cure. The Alpha is always big and brawny, which he likes, but the Omega? Inaccurate, without fail. They usually have no trouble speaking, they never cry, never have greasy hair, never have blotches of red on their necks and chests like Feliciano gets. Granted, the Omegas aren’t really in heat when they make those films, but still. They must be made by Alphas, that’s all Feliciano can think.

Feliciano takes his time in the shower. Roma will hear the water and start running through all the possible explanations; he half expects to hear the reverend’s voice come through the door, asking what’s going on. He might be torturing his grampa by standing here and watching the bubbles swirl down the drain, but the guilt is overwhelmed by the dread. Going downstairs means confrontation, and confrontation is Lovino’s area of expertise.

Once he’s dressed, he can hold off no longer. He goes downstairs one at a time, like he used to when he was a pup and Lovino would tell him _Hurry up, you’re not going to fall._ In the kitchen, Roma is absently stirring yogurt and granola as if waiting for it to cool. When he sees Feliciano, he drops the spoon. It clatters against the table, splatting white on the wood, but the reverend pays it no mind.

“Why aren’t you in heat?” he asks. It’s not an accusation. It’s the thin final inquiry before an execution.

Feliciano presses his lips together; it’s painful, because he’s been chewing them so much. “I don’t know.”

“Get your coat.” Roma stands up, abandoning his attempt at breakfast. “We’re going to the hospital.”

* * *

Two pink lines.

It always strikes Dr. Honda how fitting it is, that the positive is two pink lines. It can mean so many different things. The pair that it took to make this new life possible. The twins growing inside a swollen belly. The joy and fear new parents feel. The walls of stability, with no roof to hold them together.

“Mr. Vargas,” he says, for the second time. “Please calm down, or I’ll have to ask you to step out.”

Roma ignores him, pacing between the postered wall and the cabinets full of medical supplies. When Kiku delivered the news, he slammed a hand down on the counter and knocked over a model of a uterus; there’s still an ovary on the floor, which Kiku will have to retrieve from beneath the bed. Feliciano has his face buried in his hands, and Kiku has a feeling the presence of yet another violent Alpha isn’t helping.

Suddenly the reverend turns on him. “Why didn’t you test him before?”

Dr. Honda takes a deep breath. “Pregnancy tests don’t work immediately after intercourse. I would have asked Feliciano to come back in for one a week or so after the assault. Now that he’s missed a heat, there’s no need to wait.”

In other words, the test was just a formality. But that’s not what he wants to hear.

Roma unclenches his fists and drags a hand through his hair, which strikes Kiku as the gesture of a tormented young Alpha. “Is it possible the test is wrong?”

“It’s highly unlikely,” he replies, as gently as he can. He picks up some pamphlets. “Here is the information on termination—”

Roma’s lip curls in disgust. “That won’t be necessary.”

Dr. Honda meets his gaze, even though he’s been to three different workshops that discourage challenging Alpha patients. “I’m obligated to inform my patient and—in the case of a minor—their family that these resources exist.”

“We know they exist.” Roma crosses his arms over a chest that must have been quite mighty in his prime. “They go against our beliefs. Feliciano will not be terminating anything.”

Kiku glances at Feliciano, who still sits folded over himself, eyes glued to the floor. He understands the mindset of parents, Alpha and Omega alike: the pup must be protected at all costs. And though he is and always has been a man of science, he understands that faith can be as strong as fact for some and it is not his place to argue with that. But he also knows that sometimes what’s best for someone isn’t what’s written in scripture. So he turns his back on Roma and hides one of the abortion papers inside a booklet detailing the processes of public and private adoption.

“Would you like these?” he asks, holding them so both Feliciano and Roma can read the header.

The reverend scowls.

“Consider, at least,” Kiku finds himself murmuring. What is he doing? He isn’t supposed to push things on people. But that hopeless look in Feliciano’s eyes . . . “He’s had enough choices taken from him, Reverend.”

Roma hesitates, looking between the Omegas. Then he sighs. “Alright.”

Feliciano is the one who takes the literature from him. After all these years, it still shocks Dr. Honda what strength Omegas can summon: lifting a dresser off of a trapped pup, bearing a twelve-hour labor, smiling gratefully at a doctor who just confirmed his life is ruined.

* * *

“Come in,” Arthur says at a knock on his door. He expects to see Emil or Mikkel—Alfred doesn’t knock unless it’s the beat of some ridiculous pop song—so when the door opens to reveal Antonio Carriedo it takes his body a moment to react. It’s a bit like plunging your hand into ice water, the way it burns at first before it realizes what it’s dealing with and the real misery kicks in.

“Oh,” he says flatly. “You.”

“Me,” Antonio agrees, with even less enthusiasm. He drops a folder on Arthur’s desk with a loud slap. “There’s your transcripts.”

“Well, well,” Arthur says, leaning back in his chair. “I didn’t realize you were doing in-person deliveries. I’m honored.”

Antonio’s teeth flash in a grimace. He mutters something in Spanish—Arthur hears _chingado_ which finds its way out of Antonio’s mouth quite often when Arthur’s around—and turns, hand on the door knob. He pauses, though, and looks over his shoulder at Francis. The pure, dark hatred on his face actually surprises Arthur. Even when Antonio is angry about a loss, he never looks at Arthur like that. There’s always at least a bit of light in his eyes, rebounding optimism. But it’s all gone now.

The Spanish Alpha leaves without another word. Francis is left sitting on the sofa, a magazine wilting in his lap, staring at the door in silence.

Arthur reclines his chair a bit, trying to distract his client enough to get that forlorn look off his face. “Well. Something must’ve happened. He wasn’t that upset before.”

Francis shrugs lightly, letting the magazine slide onto the couch beside him. “Maybe he’s still mad about what happened at the office.” There’s doubt in his voice, but he doesn’t linger on it; instead, he tips up his chin and looks over at Arthur. “What transcripts?”

“Therapy transcripts,” Arthur replies, opening the folder. God, someone needs to buy the DA office some fonts other than Times New Roman. “So I can see if Feliciano said anything of import to his professional cuddler.”

Francis’s face clears in disbelief. “That’s an invasion of privacy.”

“ _Invasion of privacy_ implies it’s illegal, and it’s not. That’s slander.” Arthur starts scanning the pages. Feliks certainly likes to point out how heroic victimhood is. “Don’t argue with a lawyer.”

“Stop.” Francis is actually standing up now. “You’re taking advantage—”

“I am not _taking advantage_ of anything.” Arthur sits up straight, fingertips pinning down his place on the page. “I’m using the tools that are provided to me to represent you as justly as possible. I get that you’ve conditioned yourself to see all defense attorneys as the bad guys, but actually I don’t go round helping people ruin the world, contrary to popular belief. I don’t represent people who are blatantly guilty. Do you think I pull arguments out of my arse? No. I don’t lie in court. _That_ is illegal.”

Francis considers this speech, and Arthur thinks he hears a soft whine in the Alpha’s throat, but he could be wrong. “But,” Francis says, then starts again: “But you play around with the truth.”

“It’s still the truth, even if you look at it from a different perspective.”

Francis shakes his head. “And it’s still slimy to read what someone told someone else in confidence.”

“Then don’t read them, if they’ll give the young prince nightmares.” Arthur settles back into his seat. “I have a job to do. And I’d appreciate if you didn’t get in the way of it at every turn.”

Francis sighs, dropping back down on the sofa. Arthur returns to his reading, until his client’s weary voice breaks the silence again: “I don’t think you’re the bad guys. I just don’t like it when criminals go free.”

Arthur glances up. “Criminals going free is what this legal system was based on. Better a criminal walks than an innocent man be locked up. That was the mindset.”

That’s why he decided to be a defense attorney in the first place—or, at least, it’s one of the reasons. If people were wrongly accused, he would be the thing standing between them and unfair punishment. It seemed much more nuanced than prosecution work: sitting at the end of a chute and being fed case after case, showing up to speak in front of a world who—more often than not—believes the defendant to be guilty just by virtue of them being accused. And, more importantly, the people Arthur represented when he first started out were those on the fringes for one reason or another. Impoverished, discriminated, uneducated. So many Alphas caught dealing drugs to provide for a mate and pup. So many Omegas caught stealing—and not even so-called valuables, just things like shoes, or shampoo, or medication to soothe PMS cramps. Those are the people Arthur worked with back when he was a junior associate and clocking the firm’s pro bono hours fell to him. Now, he works with successful people who, almost always, could afford to take the fall for whatever they allegedly did. Now, Arthur doesn’t protect people, he protects reputations.

“Not that most people get to court, anyway,” Arthur continues. “Your lot love plea bargains.”

“We need plea bargains,” Francis says, with the air of a child regurgitating what his sire said. “There’s no time for everyone to go to trial. They keep the machine working.”

“Mm.” Arthur nods, more amused than anything. “Great system, eh?”

Francis blinks. “What would you prefer, anarchy?”

“No.” Arthur pictures it for a moment, digging out his old leather jacket, dying his hair the red of blood, snarling at anyone who looks at him. Savagery always seems more fun for Alphas, it’s not fair. “I didn’t say I had a better alternative. I’m just saying you shouldn’t have so much faith in the system.”

Francis falls silent, rubbing his thumb over his jaw, because of course he can’t sit there and think like a normal person—he has to pose like a model. Arthur rolls his eyes and resumes perusing. Then his eyes find a particular line, and he looks up, a smirk already playing at his lips. “How do you feel?”

Francis looks over at him, hand lingering beneath his chin in an effortlessly cute pose. “What?”

 _It should be against the law for someone to be so photogenic._ “How do you feel?”

Francis’s brow furrows, confusion plain. “About . . . the case?”

“Yeah.”

“. . . Nervous?”

“You’re terrible at this. You’re supposed to say _guilty_.”

“But you keep telling me not to feel guilty.”

Arthur throws up his hands. “Bloody hell, Bonnefoy. The idea was you were going to say you feel guilty and I was going to say so does Feliciano.” He holds up the paper, for proof. “You’re so dramatic, I thought you’d be better at this.”

Francis squints to read it all, then widens his eyes when he reaches the words. “Oh.”

“Exactly.”

* * *

Roma has been in the little town long enough to know everyone in his community, and those he doesn’t know he knows _of._ So, though he has never met them, he knows the names and faces of the unsavory folks who live in and around the town. He’s often considered what he would say, on the off chance they came in for confession, or sought his guidance and forgiveness. _God will forgive,_ he would say, _as long as you right your wrongs, and repent._

That’s not what he says when he drives down the wooded lane to Ivan Braginski’s house.

“What a surprise,” Braginski rumbles, amused. “I’m not interested in holy messages.”

“That’s not why I’m here,” Roma says, keeping his tone cold. “I’m here for business.”

Braginski looks him up and down, then turns. “Come in.”

Roma follows him through to a sparse living room. There are no pictures on the walls or rugs on the floor. Everything is bare and masculine, black leather couches and a flat screen mounted on the wall. Curled up in fire truck pajamas is an Omega pup, tablet on his lap. He looks up at Roma with big blue eyes—not surprised or shy, just vaguely curious to see a total stranger in his house.

Braginski sits down beside the pup. “Make yourself comfortable, reverend.”

Roma doubts he could ever feel comfortable in a place like this. He can smell stale smoke in the air, cigarettes and cigars and joints—and probably more serious drugs, too, that Roma doesn’t recognize. He knows the tragic story of Matthew Williams, the Omega Braginski hired to watch this fluffy-headed pup. Sad stories especially are the hardest to keep secret in small towns; people devour tragedy with morbid hunger. He hasn’t heard of any replacement for Matthew. He isn’t sure how safe this Omega pup is, living here. Are all Omegas ripe for abusing, in Braginski’s pale eyes? Or is he all the more protective of his nephew, being involved in a world where a life could be taken just for a favor?

He’ll pray for the pup, tonight, after he asks God for forgiveness.

Roma eases himself down onto the sofa. “Should the child be listening?”

Braginski glances at the pup, says something in Russian. The pup ignores him, until Braginski tickles the pink arch of a foot. Then he squeals, and Braginski repeats the order, eyes gleaming. The little Omega crawls to the end of the couch, flops over the side, and comes back up with a pair of headphones. These he plugs into his tablet and resumes watching his videos.

Roma feels skeptical, even at Braginski’s assurance that they’re _sound-cancelling._ He suspects the pup has been desensitized to terrible things already, anyway. For the first time since he saw red in the doctor’s office, he wonders if this might not be the correct path. Ivan Braginski is so far removed from the life Roma thought he’d made for himself. He is, in fact, the darker days Roma tried his hardest to leave behind. The anger, the violence. He was never afraid to start a fight, when he was Braginski’s age. He was never afraid to bed an Omega, either, when he was Bonnefoy’s. The thought has rage burning through his veins again.

He clears his throat. “I understand you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty.”

Braginski nods, still with that tiny smile. “You heard correctly.”

“I need to ask you for . . .” He hates the word, but he doesn’t know what else to call it: “A favor.”

Braginski tilts his head slightly. “For the right price, anything can be done.”

Just what he wanted to hear. He is at once chilled and aflame. “No one will find out?”

Braginski’s chuckle is like thunder nearing in the night. “For the right price.”

* * *

Antonio’s in the middle of softly banging his head on his desk when his phone buzzes.

He doesn’t recognize the number, so he clears his throat until it feels polite and says, “District Attorney’s office, Antonio speaking. How can I help you?”

The pause is long enough that Antonio wonders if this is a broken robot dialing numbers with an algorithm. Then the soft voice of Feliciano Vargas comes through: “H-Hi. Um . . . you said I could call you?”

“Of course,” he agrees. “Is there anything wrong?”

 _Loaded question,_ he thinks.

“I just feel lonely,” Feliciano replies shyly.

Antonio feels a bit peculiar about that, until he recalls his promise that he would replace Feliks and that he’ll always be ready to listen if Feliciano wants to talk. Which hasn’t changed, exactly, just . . .

 **_He’s pregnant._ ** That’s all that Roma sent him this morning, both information and accusation. The hard brevity haunts him. Pregnant. _Pregnant._ A baby growing inside someone who’s barely matured past childhood himself. Francis’s—no. He can’t think it, it makes him shudder.

He thought it would be balloons and flowers and teddy bears. _Here’s Uncle Toni!_ But instead, it’s another nail in a coffin.

“Where’s Roma?” he asks, since he knows Lovino is out of commission today. There’s another feeling to add to the cocktail inside him. Lust and disgust, yum.

“He didn’t say where he was going,” Feliciano replies. “Can you . . . can you come over?”

“Well . . .”

“Please?”

Twenty minutes later, Antonio gives his client a smile as he takes off his coat. “Brrr!”

A light smile blesses Feliciano’s face. “You sound like a kitty. Purring.”

Antonio trills an R until the Omega giggles. He imagines making a joke about _That’s not the only thing my tongue can do_ to Lovino. He wonders if that would get him a laugh, a smirk, or a slap. There is something exciting about the not knowing. “How’s Lovino doing?”

Feliciano’s smile falls off. “He’s okay.”

Antonio realizes what he’s doing and gently touches the Omega’s chin, mirroring the vaguely paternal posture of Gilbert when dealing with meek victims. “How are you doing?”

Feliciano closes his eyes. “I wish I could disappear.”

 _Well, we can’t have that._ “What would make you feel better?” he asks, with an encouraging smile. “Anything at all. Just say the word.”

The Omega opens his eyes again, a hesitant sort of hope sparkling in them. “A hug?”

Antonio grins, wraps his arms around him. He’s definitely warm, this little Vargas. He’s trembling very slightly as well, but Antonio decides it’s best not to point that out. “What else?”

Feliciano rests his cheek on Antonio’s shoulder. “Well . . . on rainy days me and Lovi and Grampa used to have pizza parties. We made a pizza from scratch, then we ate the whole thing. That always made me feel really happy, even if I had to lie down after.”

“I’ve never done that before,” Antonio says. “Do you think you could teach me?”

Feliciano looks up at him, mouth a little O. “You really want to?”

Antonio thinks about the paperwork he left unfinished on his desk. Then he smiles. “Absolutely. Let’s have a pizza party.”

And they do just that. The last time Antonio baked was with Francis, but he puts that out of his mind. It’s a lot different, sharing a kitchen with an Omega than with another Alpha. Antonio finds himself stepping back again and again while reaching for something so Feliciano can duck under his arms. He saves Feliciano the hassle of dragging a chair over to reach the cupboards. It’s a cozy sort of dance, and Antonio makes a point of being goofy: pretending to be woozy from the smell of the yeast, sneezing when he ghosts himself with flour, making a silly face out of the pepperoni slices. By the time they get to eat their prize, Feliciano has a smile and two dimples set firmly into his face.

Then a pained moan drifts down to them.

Antonio freezes, replaying the sound over and over in his head until it’s nonsensical. Still, it invokes images of that skin, those eyes, swollen lips and tender, well, everything. He wonders if he would be able to control himself, if he went upstairs right now. _Yes, I could._ Even if he opened the door? He hopes so. It would be difficult, but he thinks he could do it. He isn’t _that_ much of an animal.

Feliciano is watching him with an oddly thoughtful expression. “Are you going to pair-bond with Lovi?”

Antonio lets out a startled laugh. “Well. I-I don’t know. Did he, uh, did he say something about that?”

Feliciano’s lips curl into a small, knowing smile. “No. But I can tell.”

With that, Antonio realizes how they’ve all been making Feliciano into a child. He was taken advantage of, yes, but that doesn’t make him ignorant. In fact, it makes him more worldly than a lot of Omegas his age. Antonio wonders, also, if the whole world is waiting for him to court Lovino Vargas.

“I like him a lot,” he admits. Then he nudges Feliciano’s side as gently as possible. “And I like you, too.”

That didn’t come out as intended, but before he can correct himself, Feliciano’s smile widens and he says, “You would make a good brother-in-law.”

Antonio grins. “Well, thank you. And you’d make a great hermanito.”

Perhaps reminded by the talk of brothers, Feliciano says, “I should bring some pizza to Lovi.”

He vanishes up the staircase with a plate and a glass of water. Left to his own devices, Antonio brings his third slice of pizza into the living room. The sofa is a pale creamy color, which reminds Antonio of the pure white one in his grandam’s house; oh, the furious Spanish you’d hear if you even _thought_ about bringing food in that room. He smiles fondly, and that smile only warms when he sees all the photographs on the walls and the mantle. Lovino’s graduation, arms crossed in a navy robe; all three Vargases, Feliciano beaming from Roma’s lap, Lovino’s look closer to a sneer than anything; and finally, Lovino and Feliciano as young creatures in corduroy coats, sprawled in a mountain of straw at a local farm that offers hayrides, corn mazes, and pumpkin picking. This is the only photo with a smiling Lovino, and it’s a wide-open smile that Antonio knows came from laughter. He hasn’t yet seen such delight on Lovino’s face. _Someday,_ he vows. _Somehow. I’ll make him laugh like that._

He’ll have to find out if Lovino is ticklish.

* * *

Arthur hasn’t given him anything new to chew on, so Alfred is essentially wandering around when he drives past the church and notices Roma’s car in the parking lot. It’s the middle of the day, no one else is around. If there’s a perfect time to talk to the reverend, now could very well be it.

So he heads in. He checks the sprawling nave, then the chapel, then heads downstairs to the office. The door is open, and the reverend is seated at his desk, head bowed. He’s not in any religious habit, though Alfred supposes he doesn’t have to be when he’s not hosting a service. It feels rude to interrupt, so Alfred lingers long enough for it to feel awkward before he taps a knuckle against the door.

Roma glances up. Alfred offers a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry, Reverend. I don’t want to bother you.”

“No, it’s fine.” He crosses himself. “Come in, sit down.”

Alfred obeys. Is he crazy, or did he just get the faintest whiff of weed? “I just wanted to stop in for a second.”

A squinty look. “I saw you at the service on Sunday, didn’t I?”

“Yes, it was my first time. I really enjoyed it,” he says with an easy smile.

“So much that you left halfway through my sermon.”

 _Holy shit._ Literally. Alfred didn’t realize a reverend could be so direct. _Good luck cross-examining this one, Art._ “I know, I’m sorry. I have low blood sugar. I figured stepping out would be better than crinkly wrappers.”

Roma quirks an eyebrow. “In that case, you’re excused.”

Alfred wonders if the disapproving tone was just teasing. But now he’s curious. “Do you recognize me? Outside of church?”

The reverend squints at him again. “Should I?”

“I live in the city but I spend a lot of time in town.”

“Where do you work?”

“I’m a private investigator,” he replies, because _detective_ tends to set people off.

Roma doesn’t seem to connect any dots, though. “Is there a lot of demand for those around here?”

“Oh yeah, big time. Last month I found a lost dog.”

Those crinkles in the corners of Roma’s eyes. Lose thirty years, and Alfred would say yes. Maybe even just twenty. “All good deeds are rewarded.”

“That one was,” Alfred agrees. “They gave me some double fudge brownies. Heaven on earth!” Then he glances up at the ceiling. “I mean, not really. No offense. Sorry.”

Roma chuckles. “You’re absolved.”

“Thanks!” An idea pops into his head, and he adds, “If I’m not interrupting anything, do you think I could ask you some questions about faith?”

The reverend clasps his hands on the desk. “I’m never too busy to answer those questions. Fire away.”

“Well, first I just want to offer my condolences,” he says earnestly, “for the terrible thing that happened. I’d hoped it was just a rumor, but who would ever spread something that awful, you know?”

Roma’s face sags a bit now, weary. “What you’ve heard is true.”

Alfred crinkles his brow in sympathy. “I’m sorry.”

Another bow of the head, but not as deep as prayer. “As am I.”

“I just . . .” He rubs the back of his neck. “I just wanted to know if God punishes victims for that kind of thing. You know, on account of it being impure and all—outside of wedlock, I mean . . .”

“No. God does not blame rape victims.” Roma fixes a solemn stare on Alfred. “The impurity was not their choice, so they cannot be punished for it.”

Alfred nods, relieved. “I’m glad to hear that.” Then he looks down at his lap. He wishes he could get his notepad out, but it’s too late now if that would ever have flown. “I’m sorry, I just thought of another question, but it’s so horrible I don’t want to say it.”

The creak of the reverend’s chair has Alfred looking up. Roma leans forward enough to rest a hand on Alfred’s shoulder. “There is no sin in asking a question, son.”

It’s been so long since Alfred felt a paternal vibe so strong, he can’t help but be soothed by it. For a split second, he wants nothing more on this earth than to play catch with this Alpha. _Get a hold of yourself, Jones._ “Well, what if . . . it would be so awful, but what if . . . a victim got pregnant?”

Just like that, Roma’s warm eyes darken. His whole body tenses, and he leans stiffly back in his chair. In an emotionless tone, he recites, “ _Fathers shall not be put to death because of their children, and children shall not be put to death because of their fathers._ A child should never be punished for the mistakes of its ancestors.”

“Of course not. That makes sense. What about pups born before their parents pair-bond?”

Now Roma shakes his head. “No one born of a forbidden union may enter the kingdom of God.”

Alfred wonders what the heck that’s supposed to mean, because isn’t a rape the most forbidden union of all? But he just asks, “Doesn’t that punish the kid, though?”

The reverend’s mouth twists. “It punishes them all. In these cases, a child born of such impurities should be given to another family. If those parents could not wait until they were pair-bonded to mate, they’re likely too irresponsible to provide for the child, anyway. If the pup is baptised and raised up from sin, they may be forgiven in the end. But the parents will be punished, one way or another. They chose to go against God’s intention.”

So much for the nice vibes. Add another disappointing father figure to the list. Alfred needs to go write all this down before he forgets, but he also just really wants to leave. Right now. He stands up. “Thank you, Reverend.”

“Do you need anything else? A blessing? Something to confess?”

 _Ha, you wish._ He shakes his head, smiling politely. “No, but thanks anyway. Have a good one.”

Then he hurries out into the chill, drawing in deep breaths, relieved to be free of the musty church-smell, the disapproving eyes, and the posturing that makes him feel unfamiliar to himself.

* * *

“The tighter the better,” Gilbert says through the plastic clamped between his teeth. “Less give means less strength you have to put into it.”

“Gil—”

He gives one last tug to the zip ties around his wrists, then holds them out so they’re easier to see. “These thin ones are much more common, and most people can break out of them. If they’re thicker than this, chances are you’ll need to saw through with something. That’s why you should always carry heat-resistant string—”

“ _Gil._ ” Matthew smiles fondly. “I really don’t think I’m gonna get kidnapped.”

Gilbert pauses, looking at the Omega in front of him. It’s a conflicting message; how could some villain see that sweet face and _not_ want to kidnap him? “Well, probably not, but it’s good to be prepared.”

They’re at a disused lumber mill half an hour out of town, because in the middle of Matthew’s third round of driving practise he noticed a dirt road disappearing into the woods. _Where does that go?_ To which Gilbert had of course replied, _Let’s find out._ So after a heart-stopping turn that reduced Matthew to adrenaline giggles— _okay, just, slow down a little before you do that next time_ —they bumped and bounced along until at last finding a rusty wood processor, several stacks of pallets, and a three-walled shed full of sawdust. Matthew’s first observation was _This looks like someplace you’d get taken if you were kidnapped._ Which filled Gilbert with an intense paranoia only cured by getting zip ties out of his trunk.

Which Matthew is looking through now. “This is like a survivalist’s basement. You have a first-aid kit in here. And bottles of water.”

Gilbert doesn’t want to point out that almost everything in there is for victims. He’s glad the pair of stuffed animals are wrapped up inside a shock blanket, because he suspects those would give it away. “Every car should have a first-aid kit,” he points out. “That way you don’t have to wait for paramedics if you need bandages right away.”

Matthew faces him again, smiling thoughtfully. “I know first aid. I took a course in school.”

 _That’s comforting._ “And now you’re taking a course on how to break out of zip ties.”

Matthew holds up his hands in surrender. “Okay, show me your secrets.”

“You want to put outward and inward pressure on them at the same time. So pull them apart with your arms, then push something into them. You can use your leg or your chest. Don’t use your stomach, that won’t feel the greatest.” He demonstrates each technique in slow motion, bringing his wrists down into his chest, then his thigh. “Chest is usually the easiest.”

“I don’t think I’m quite as strong as you,” Matthew tells him, amused.

“Don’t underestimate yourself,” Gilbert says, trying to sound encouraging. “You have more strength than this little piece of plastic. You can do it.”

“You have to prove it’s possible, first.”

So Gilbert snaps the ties apart. These small ones are so weak he can break them without the force of bringing them against his chest, but he’s doing it for educational purposes. Purely educational.

Matthew looks quite educated. A hint of a blush warms his cheeks. “Well, you make it look easy.”

“Practise makes perfect,” he says with a smile.

“Practise and push-ups,” Matthew corrects, offering his arms.

“Those help, too.” He cinches the zip ties around the Omega’s wrists. He doesn’t like the look of the plastic squeezing Matthew’s soft skin. “Too tight?”

“No, it’s okay.” Matthew flexes against the binds experimentally and lets out a pained squeak. “I’ll cut off circulation before I break free.”

“Don’t do that,” Gilbert says helpfully. “Use your strength as little as possible. You don’t want to tire yourself out. Go into it knowing you’ll do it on the first try.”

“But I won’t.”

 _Confidence, liebling._ “I bet you will.”

Now Matthew tips his chin up, teasing. “What do you wanna bet?”

“If you do it, I’ll teach you how to do a J-turn.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ll just have to find out.”

Matthew sticks out his tongue. “Well, if I don’t do it, I get to kiss you.”

Every cell in Gilbert’s body stops moving for a moment, to make sure it heard him correctly. _Does he mean_ —? They’ve kissed before. Well, he’s kissed his cheek, forehead, hands. But never . . . He must mean it, if he’s saying it outright like that. “That’s not very fair, Matthew.”

He grins naughtily. “You have to drive a hard bargain with kidnappers.”

Gilbert shakes his head, but he’s laughing. “Alright, wisenheimer. All your strength. Push out and pull down.”

To his credit, Matthew does try. He gives the ties a determined look, tenses his arms, lifts them up, and brings them hard down into his chest—only to stagger backward, bent over and coughing. “That didn’t feel very nice, Gil.”

“You were a little too low, I think,” he says, one hand on Matthew’s back, the other on his arm in case he actually drops. “But that wasn’t a bad attempt.”

“I punched myself in the lungs,” Matthew says, laughing before he’s even finished the sentence. “With both hands!”

“Not everyone can say they’ve done that.” He rests a careful hand on Matthew’s chest, trying to inspect his ribs through the bulky layered sweaters. “You’re not too sore, are you? No sharp pain?”

“I’m okay.” A new, low tone has come into his voice now. His eyes, too, have a darker sparkle that Gilbert’s only seen a few times. “But I’d feel better if you kissed me.”

And even with him looking and sounding like that—not to mention that sweet scent surrounding him—Gilbert still feels reluctant. He’s not allowed to have this yet. Someone else took it from Matthew when it was denied by the state and by the Omega himself; Gilbert may only be breaking one rule, but that’s one more than he’d rather. He _knows_ Matthew can consent and that really two months won’t make any difference at all, but there’s still just this maddening mesh wall between himself and happiness. He can see it, but he can’t grasp it.

“Gil.” Matthew reaches up with his tied hands to tug him closer by the coat. “It’s just a little kiss.”

All at once, Gilbert imagines this scene flipped. If someone saw an Alpha pulling at an Omega, crowding close, saying things like _Come on, it’s no big deal, it’s just a little kiss_ —well, that’s something out of a bad Just Say NO video they’d show in schools. But because it’s an Omega pressuring an Alpha, it’s harmless, or seductive, or funny. He remembers a moment at his high school grad party—one of the few things he does recall from that party—when he was sitting on a couch talking to someone and the next thing he knew an Omega was straddling him, completely plastered. An Alpha would never get away with something like that, even surrounded by drunk teenagers. But that Omega had left some drool on Gilbert’s cheek before being led away to some bedroom. Back then, Gilbert never thought anything of it. Now, he winces to think how long that Omega lasted before he passed out . . . and how many Alphas took advantage of that before the night was over.

Gilbert shakes his head. It starts off slight, then gains adamance. “No, I think we should wait.”

Matthew looks surprised and, as he’d feared, a bit dejected. “Oh. Okay.”

“It’s not you.” He cups his soft cheek, smiling kindly. “I just want to do this right.”

A slow smile spreads across pink lips. “Legal kisses are pretty romantic.”

Gilbert chuckles. “I think so, too.” He retrieves a Swiss Army Knife from the trunk and waits until Matthew has gone still to slice through the zip ties. “There, you’re free.”

Matthew rubs the faint white rings on his wrists. “That’s how it would happen, anyway.”

Gilbert raises an inquiring brow.

“If I got kidnapped. I wouldn’t break myself out.” He’s already getting into the car, and speaking with the most matter-of-fact tone. “You’d rescue me.”

Gilbert is beyond pleased that Matthew no longer shrinks into himself and finishes with, _Right?_ If Matthew isn’t yet confident in his own abilities, at least he’s confident in Gilbert’s.

“I don’t know,” he says with exaggerated uncertainty. “I’m a really busy guy . . .”

“Gil!”

He grins and lets the trunk drop shut.

* * *

“You _didn’t_ ,” Arthur says, his spoon dropping back into his soup. He’s glad for an excuse not to eat it, to be honest; he’s quickly discovering that, despite it being his favorite color, green foods are not his happy place. He wishes Francis hadn’t told him what they’re eating. It would probably be more appetizing if he wasn’t thinking with each spoonful, _Mm, lettuce and milk. Delicious._

“I did,” Francis says, nodding. “I rented a tux with Toni, but I bought a dress, too. I was going to wear the tux for half the party, then change into the dress once people were drunk.” He twirls a wave of gold hair around a sheepish thumb. “But I got drunk, too.”

“Did you end up in the dress?” He tries to imagine it, some saucy strapless number straining to accommodate the harsher slopes of an Alpha body. He’d look good in something red, or a dark blue . . . He swallows some of the soup, to punish himself.

“Not that I can recall,” Francis says, which has Arthur snorting. He smiles. “I did wear it, alone in my room. I assume it still fits, I haven’t gotten any more out of shape.”

“Why did you say that like you think you aren’t already fit?”

Francis blinks, lips sucked in between his teeth. A pup with a hand in the cookie jar.

“Come off it.” Arthur points his spoon at him accusingly. “You are _not_ fat.”

“No,” Francis agrees. He raises an arm, curling it up to flex his bicep. “Look, it moves almost two millimeters.”

“Alright, if you want to have a _which twat has the thinnest arms_ competition, I’ve got you beat. That throne has never been yours to claim.”

Francis beams. “We could arm wrestle for it.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “You look way too proud of that.”

“It was funny,” he protests. “What, that’s a groaner but _snarkness_ makes you laugh?”

Arthur smirks down at his bowl of swamp water. Francis shakes his head. “I’ll never understand your sense of humor.”

“And I’ll never understand your sense of fashion,” Arthur replies. “So we’re even.”

The varying quality of food notwithstanding, on the whole he’s pleased with this change to his routine. It’s nice to have a conversation over food—even if it’s with this moisturized amphibian—rather than stab himself in the chin with a fork while reading paperwork. He wonders if it’s this easy to involve anyone in your life, like skin growing over a splinter, or if it’s only particular foreign objects the body won’t reject. He couldn’t deal with his family being in his life, and he tried with them a lot longer than with Francis. Some flavors blend well, some don’t.

They have dish-washing down to a science as well, Francis timing his scrubbing so Arthur doesn’t end up with an impenetrable pile of plates and utensils. Francis wipes down the counter, Arthur cleans the table. There’s only one bit of domestic cliche Arthur allows, because honestly—fuck taking out the trash.

“Oh, is this my job now?” Francis asks, though he doesn’t seem particularly bothered. Like Alfred, he has the general ambition to be useful, which Arthur appreciates.

Arthur places the bag into his hand. “Well, you did such an exemplary job of it last time, I’d hate to steal the glory from you. It would be a crime, truly.”

“Mm-hmm.” Francis tosses him an amused glance over his shoulder as he heads out.

* * *

Francis can’t believe it’s not snowing when he gets outside. _At least it’s not windy,_ he thinks, rounding the dark corner to drop the bag into the garbage bin. He rubs his hands together as he turns, trying to warm them with friction.

At first, he thinks it’s a trick of the poor light. Then two black shapes step into the pool of silver from the bulkhead light, and Francis realizes what they are: a pair of Alphas in ski masks, both holding baseball bats.

“Wait,” he says. “No—” 

And then they’re on him.

* * *

Arthur waits five minutes before he realizes how long it’s been. He goes to the door, presses his ear against it. Is the foolish French Alpha standing on the other side, waiting to spook him? He doesn’t hear anything. Cautiously, he opens the door, looks up and down the hallway. No sign of him. Brow furrowing, he grabs his jacket and heads downstairs.

When he finds him, it’s like his heart turns into a grenade: cold, heavy, ready to reduce him to bloody, singed shrapnel. He drops to his knees beside the prostrate Alpha, one hand clutching his sternum, the other hovering over the body. No, not _the body._ He’s not a corpse. Is he?

“Francis,” he says, a hollow hiss.

He shifts with painful slowness, groaning. It’s little more than an inch of movement all together, but it has relief shooting through Arthur like adrenaline. His hand shakes as he digs his mobile from his pocket.

Francis mumbles something. It takes Arthur a moment to realize it was _No._

“Why the fuck not?” he demands.

Thickly, as if drunk, Francis replies, “Was out of your sight.”

Arthur realizes reporting this would just be opening a whole other can of worms. He can just hear that smug Spaniard: _If he was violating his supervision condition at this time, who’s to say he hasn’t done it before?_ And it’s Francis’s decision to go to the hospital, anyway, as much as Arthur hates to admit that.

“Alright,” Arthur says, shoving his phone back into his jacket. “Alright. We’re not adding hypothermia to your problems. Get up.” He can only watch Francis try to lift himself with quivering arms for ten seconds before he takes one and puts it over his shoulder. “You have to help me. Both legs. Up!”

Francis gathers his legs beneath him, but it’s a tenuous balance at best. Arthur bears most of his weight. “Just think,” he says breathlessly as they stagger up the stairs, “if you were big and muscular, you’d be S.O.L. on the concrete.”

If Francis sees the humor in that, he doesn’t show it beyond another moan. When Arthur finally gets him laid out on the bed, he sees why: his lip is split and bloody, his eye is an ugly red that Arthur knows will be an uglier purple tomorrow, and by the way each inhalation is accompanied by a whimper he suspects there’s something quite not-nice going on with his ribs.

“What happened to you?” seems the most pertinent question.

Francis doesn’t look at him. The words come slowly, lips barely parting for them: “Two Alphas . . . with bats . . .”

Arthur wouldn’t put it past any of those thick-skulled Alphas in that town hall meeting to get the notion of hunting Francis down and _teaching him a lesson_ with what most certainly qualify as deadly weapons. He’ll just have to let that anger simmer in the background, though, because now he has to play nurse. “Did they break anything?”

“. . . no.”

Should he believe someone who probably has a concussion? He touches his fingertips to the hem of Francis’s sweater, and when no protest comes, he carefully pulls it up. “Fuck.” Most of his abdomen is swollen and reddened, and some places already have nasty little scarlet marks, and one section of muscle is twitching, spasming twice for every tortured breath. But there aren’t any strict lumps or bumps on display. “Nothing’s poking out, at least.”

“I . . . told you . . .”

Arthur gives him a look, which just reminds him of the horror of his face. “I’ll be right back.” He hurries to the bathroom, runs cold water on a facecloth. _My God, what am I doing?_ He doesn’t even have an ice pack. But the cold cloth in his hand brings back a memory: a teething collie dragging a frozen dish rag round the squat, a wee bell jingling on its collar, pink tongue licking tears from Arthur’s cheeks. Gone, now. All of that, gone. _As it should be._ He wets another cloth, puts it in the freezer, and returns to Francis.

Francis whimpers at the cold on his lip, but quiets when Arthur folds it up—blood facing out, he’s not running a prison infirmary here—and rests it on the soon-to-be black eye. “Your ribs should probably be wrapped, I don’t know . . .” He looks it up on his phone while Francis lies there looking dead. “Not a must-do, apparently. I’m liable to hurt you worse, if I try it.”

“’S okay,” comes the meek mumble.

Arthur stands beside him now, feeling useless. “What else can I do?”

“Stay.”

Arthur must’ve heard him wrong. “What?”

“Lie down,” Francis rasps. “Here.”

It must be because he feels bad, that’s his justification for it. Slowly, gingerly, he lowers himself onto the bed beside Francis. He’s about to shift back so he doesn’t accidentally brush against him and cause him pain, but then the Alpha’s arms are around him, weakly urging him closer. This close, Arthur can smell him—mostly like lilac shampoo, with a bit of blood mixed in—and feel the warmth of him. Both of these things have his instincts saying _Yes, good_ and he finds himself agreeing, so he curls into him and carefully rests his head on Francis’s chest. He waits for ridicule, but nothing comes, perhaps because talking is too much trouble for Francis at the moment. He feels Francis’s breath tickling the hair on the top of his head, hears a contented sigh ease from the Alpha’s body and a softer one echoed by his own.

Why has he denied himself this for so long, he wonders, being held in the heaven of an Alpha’s arms? _I’m sorry,_ he thinks, to Francis and to himself. Pain must’ve exhausted him, because Francis is soon snoring. Arthur doesn’t want to sleep, so he clings to wakefulness as long as he can, listening to Francis’s heart and lungs soldiering on, proof that—no matter how it may look from the outside—he’s not broken yet.

* * *

Feliciano flips his pillow over so he can soak this side in tears, too. He can hear Lovino writhing and moaning; it must be three a.m. by now, but that doesn’t mean anything. By the second day heat becomes a half-dream of forgotten sights and sounds. Feliciano remembers being quite disturbed to see his brother apparently asleep with his eyes open, back before Feliciano started puberty. It’s been so long since Lovino had a heat without him, he’s forgotten what it’s like to be alone with his brother, lucid and aware while Lovino can barely form coherent sentences. It’s a lonesome feeling, but that’s pretty much Feliciano’s life now.

He holds a hand over his belly, thinks of the thing growing inside him. A pup. A baby, with eyes and fingers and a smile. He wonders what color its eyes will be. He wonders if it will be an Alpha or an Omega. _An Alpha,_ he hopes. That way maybe he can protect himself like Feliciano can’t.

He squints through the shadow, over at Lovino’s tormented form. He wishes they could skip all of this pain and go to a different world, where Antonio and Lovino are mates and it’s sunny all the time and Feliciano can just be with them and be happy. But that dream is incomplete, and it hurts.

He rolls over and gazes out the window, at the bulging moon. He’s reminded of his belly by the pale curve. He never thought this would happen so quickly. He squeezes the muffin top between his fingers, but it’s a balloon that won’t burst. He remembers Dr. Honda’s dark eyes, the escape that Roma denied. If he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t want to terminate anything, either. But he never thought . . .

 _That’s the problem,_ Lovino has told him a thousand times over the years. _You never think, until it’s too late._

Feliciano tears up again; the moon blurs and shimmers like it’s reflected on a black sea. _Please,_ he begs. _Tell me what to do._

But if there’s anything up there, it doesn’t have a solution.


	10. Rally the Troops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> discovery and jury selection is sped waaay up

Arthur is not in a good mood.

He hates jury selection. He would much rather sit and read a whole room’s worth of discovery documents than go through the rigmarole of first figuring out the questionnaire with the prosecutor—like trying to write with a pencil while one person controls the lead tip and the other controls the eraser—then the maddening tedium of interviewing each potential juror individually while the judge watches and protests anything controversial. For this case, however, things are even worse. The defendant always has the right to be present for the selection, but Arthur almost always tells them to stay home for it—or in jail, depending if the poor sod made bail. But with the supervision condition, Francis _has_ to come along. Which wouldn’t altogether be a bad thing, if he could walk.

“Stop it,” Arthur said immediately this morning upon walking into the bedroom in his towel and finding Francis almost in tears with the pain of trying to stand. “Lie down and stay there. I’ll call the judge.”

Which was a process in itself. He called chambers, got a clerk who put him on hold until a recess was called in whatever hearing Oxenstierna was dealing with at the time, then had to connect the call with Antonio so they could all chat together because the opposing side must be present for all conversations with the judge. Arthur told them Francis was ill, an excuse his client had suggested. Berwald agreed a police officer would be a fine replacement for Arthur during the hours they were in court. Arthur suggested Gilbert be the officer in question. The judge wondered aloud if Gilbert might be too biased for the job, but Antonio had surprised Arthur by replying, _He was the arresting officer on this case. If anything he’s biased against Bonnefoy._ So it was decided, at last.

And _then_ , after waiting for Gilbert to arrive, he found his car waiting with **_WHORE_ ** spray-painted across the windscreen. He contemplated that for a moment, the perfect red droplet trailing down from the E like a drop of blood. The term _deja vu_ came to mind, among the meteor shower of furious curses. Then he went back up to his flat and said, “I need to take your car.”

Gilbert turned from filling up a glass with water. “Why?”

Arthur inhaled, eyes narrowing. His expression said: _If I don’t die of a heart attack right now, I will kill you._

“Alright. Calm down.” The Alpha handed over his keys. “Is there something wrong with the engine? I might be able to fix it. I could take a look—”

“No. Don’t look at it.” Arthur walked out, his heart beating with such a disgusting rhythm he thought he could feel it squirming against his lungs. It was an experiment, he reasoned, to call, “Thank you,” as he shut the door.

And he did feel a bit less nasty after that. Go figure.

Now, finally, he’s walking into the courtroom three entire minutes late. Everyone turns to look at him, of course, and he pulls a polite smile onto his lips even though he feels himself blushing and his heart is still going through a crisis.

“Nice of you to join us,” Antonio remarks.

Arthur ignores him, glancing up at Berwald. “Car trouble.”

The judge’s expression is severe, but it always is. “Do you predict any other interruptions, Mr. Kirkland?”

Arthur recalls, then, that the only other time he was late to court was his first year working full-time for Densen & van den Berg. It was five minutes at the most, but the presiding judge saw fit to chew his ear off. Mikkel overheard him complaining about it to Emil and laughed. _Be happy that’s all he did. I got held in contempt for being late once._ Arthur learned his lesson: in a system that at once takes forever and has no time to spare, it’s best to show up early.

“No, Your Honor,” he murmurs now. “My apologies.”

“Good. Let’s get started.”

Arthur considers the obligatory speech every judge gives— _even if you are not selected today, we must express our gratitude to you for participating in the pursuit of justice_ —to be participation-trophy froth on a good day, but this morning it sickens him. Forty-three people filled out the questionnaire, and of those nineteen were brought in for interviews today. They’re sitting behind him in the gallery, waiting to be called. Waiting to be struck, in some cases. He and Antonio both have three peremptory strikes they can use to ditch someone without justification. Arthur often wishes those strikes existed in everyday life. Three wouldn’t be enough, though. He’d never end up using them, for fear of wasting. That, or he’d use them all in one night on grabby Alphas in a bar. It’s hard to imagine now, but there was a time when he thought it was hot for his mate to enjoy sharing him with others.

“Mr. Edelstein.” The judge’s sonorous voice ends his reverie. “Please come forward.”

Contrary to what sitcoms would have you believe, the majority of people who get called for _jury duty_ never end up pursuing any justice. If they have a job, or a medical issue, or children, or any other vaguely important thing that demands their presence, they’re excused. If they have nothing better to do with their lives, they fill out the questionnaire, and if the answers are acceptable, they’re brought in for this delightful activity. Perhaps Arthur hates it because it reminds him of blind dating. Back and forth with inoffensive questions, neither of them happy to be there.

The prosecution gets to go first, as usual. Antonio smiles the smile of someone who has never scraped paint off of glass with a razor. “Hello, Mr. Edelstein. You’re a musician, is that right?”

Roderich wasn’t the only artist in the jury pool—they’re the sort of people to have too much free time on their hands—but he is the only one who didn’t give hideously pretentious answers. (In response to Arthur’s _Have you or someone close to you been affected by sexual assault?_ one of them had written _I’m assaulted every month, no, everyday. Until Alphas feel what Omegas go through, for them and for ourselves, we will always be victims._ Fucking equalists.) Arthur is leery of all the Omegas here today, but Roderich’s formal, concise answers give him some hope.

“Yes,” Roderich replies. “And composer.”

Antonio holds up his questionnaire. “You wrote _N/A_ in response to the question about religious beliefs. Could you tell us what that means?”

“I don’t have any.” Roderich quirks an _Isn’t that obvious?_ eyebrow. Arthur finds himself smirking. If Antonio doesn’t strike this one, he’ll be pleased.

“Do you believe in pair-bonding before mating?”

“Well. It’s what I would do.” Roderich gives a light shrug. “What others do is their business, not mine.”

Yes, Arthur wants this one. When it’s his turn to follow-up, he asks, “Do you believe people are innocent until proven guilty?”

“Of course.”

“When you were asked if you consider yourself to be right- or left-wing, you said _neither._ Why is that?”

“I don’t like to label myself. Besides, nothing is accomplished by extremes.” Roderich gazes at him through elegant spectacles. “Compromise is essential.”

 _Well, that’s that._ Someone who’s willing to meet him in the middle is precisely what he needs—and they’ll save time if he’s going into this already thinking the prosecution is a bit dim. “The defense has no objection to Mr. Edelstein sitting on this panel,” Arthur says, sitting back down.

Antonio nods. “The prosecution has no objection, either.”

Arthur glances over at him. What’s he thinking? Does he have enough evidence that he doesn’t mind putting sensible people on? Paranoia creeps in; Arthur slams the door in its face. Perhaps it would’ve been better to have Francis here, as a distraction from his thoughts if nothing else. A double-edged sword; it would be good to gauge how potential jurors react to Francis, but it might also be beneficial to keep the defendant as vague as possible in their minds until the trial. And with him so battered . . . they might take pity, but they’re just as likely to latch on to the ugliness and let that fester into hatred.

He knows he’s going to strike the next witness before he even starts his follow-up questioning. The Omega is a second-year uni student who, according to his stammered account, was date-raped at a party last year. “Thank you for being brave enough to share that with us,” Antonio says, while Arthur thinks, _Thank you for being brave enough to show me you won’t be getting near that box._ When Berwald tells the Omega he can go home, Arthur is surprised to see a few tears glinting in his eyes—and even more surprised to feel guilt burning his throat. What the hell is that for?

Next up is Yao Wang, the first Omega over thirty Arthur has seen wear nail extensions. He seems fairly level-headed, until Antonio starts asking about his pups. “My oldest is the age of the victim, and if something like this happened to him . . . well, I would want a punishment far worse than jail time, put it that way.”

Antonio glances over. Arthur slices a finger across his throat. Antonio rolls his eyes.

From there, it’s one after the other. Antonio strikes an older Alpha whose mate left him and screwed him over with alimony payments. Arthur uses his last strike on a retired elementary school teacher. Antonio strikes an Omega who volunteers at an abortion clinic in the city.

When Oxenstierna calls a ten-minute recess, they have eleven confirmed members and Arthur has a headache. There are two water fountains in this tiny courthouse, but only one of them works and naturally it’s the one farthest from the courtroom. He slips one of his pills from the little case in his pocket, puts it on his tongue, and bends to wash it down with some lovely chlorine-flavored town water.

“Agh, I’m pretty over this, are you?”

Arthur staggers back, spluttering. Antonio is leaning against the wall, watching him with weary amusement. Arthur glares, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Don’t you know better than to startle someone while they’re drinking? You could kill somebody.”

Antonio raises an eyebrow, arms crossed over his chest. “I didn’t realize you startled so easy.”

“I don’t.” Arthur straightens his suit jacket, fastening a couple middle buttons. “What do you want?”

“Nothing from you.” Antonio glances down the empty hall. “Nobody else to talk to, that’s all.”

Arthur grimaces. “I’m sure you could find a clerk to bother. Check the staffroom, they’re probably in there, talking about—”

“—grandchildren,” Antonio finishes. “I know, I just came from there.”

“God.” Arthur lets a bit of a smirk curl. “You must be desperate.”

“I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”

Arthur’s smirk vanishes. Things are truly dire; he’s wishing he had Francis to talk to, in place of this Spaniard. He imagines a world where the circumstances are flipped, with Antonio living with him while Francis works to put him away. It’s laughable: Francis doesn’t have the grit to be so vindictive, and Arthur would never let Antonio in his bed. It would be humiliating. Besides, he smells spicy, like those cinnamon hearts the nuns gave out on Valentine’s Day. Arthur prefers the lilacs.

“What are you going to do after this?” he asks, regarding Antonio thoughtfully. “Will you feel better when Francis is in prison?”

The Spanish Alpha’s eyes widen for a split second, then narrow. “This isn’t about how I feel. This is about enforcing society’s rules.”

“Oh, is it really? Damn it, I wish somebody had told me.” Arthur shakes his head. “I was doing it so I could ruin my friend’s life and mount my secretary this whole time.”

Green eyes darken and a low growl rumbles up from Antonio’s chest.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” Arthur shakes his head pityingly. “Shame you can’t do that in a courtroom. You’ve got me convinced—of how much you let your feelings control your actions, that is.” He gives a chipper smile. “We’d best get back to building our sand castle.”

Antonio pushes off the wall and knocks Arthur’s shoulder with his own as he goes past. Arthur grins, following after him. There’s a distinct difference: the slur sprayed on his car is othering, but this is the jostling of rivalry.

He supposes he has to give Antonio that much credit. If he _did_ share a bed with him, he wouldn’t worry about wandering hands. In that sense, he trusts Antonio, and Gilbert, and of course Francis. Rather refreshing, after all the criminals he’s represented and bedded, to have that baseline of respect.

Eduard von Bock is the Alpha scion of a security company—one of the bigger buildings in the inner city—and he tells Arthur he just recently dropped out of university. “I enjoy academics but I don’t really know what I want to do,” he admits sheepishly. “And the atmosphere wasn’t very . . . beneficial to me.”

That sounds like a red flag if he’s ever heard one. “Could you elaborate?”

“Well.” Eduard adjusts his glasses for the third time in as many minutes. “There was a lot of pressure to drink and party. That’s not my kind of thing. It was stressful, and distracting.”

Spoiled rich kids can be helpful; they’re often harder to win sympathy from, so at least Eduard won’t be automatically sucking up to Antonio. Arthur glances down at the questionnaire. “I’m not quite sure what you wrote here, in response to the experience with sexual assault question.”

Eduard pushes his glasses higher on his nose yet again. “I, well, I wrote _Yes_ but I wasn’t sure if it counts. I sort of crossed it out.”

“Describe it to us.” Oxenstierna’s cold eyes find him, so he adds, “If you would.”

“It happened when I was, ah, under an influence,” Eduard says. “At a party. Everyone was doing it. I thought I just passed out, but I found out the next day that I’d tried to . . .” He takes a breath to compose himself. “I’d tried to force myself on one of the Omegas there. I would never do something like that normally. I apologized to the Omega, as best I could. He didn’t want to talk to me, understandably.”

Arthur can’t believe what he’s hearing. “So you agree that the influence of drugs or alcohol can make people do things they’d never normally do?”

Eduard nods. “I believe that, absolutely.”

Arthur smiles. “Thank you for coming here today, Mr. von Bock. Your Honor, the defense has no objection.”

He glances over at Antonio, who unfortunately has run out of strikes. Grudgingly, the Spanish Alpha says, “The prosecution has no objection.”

While Antonio scowls, Arthur just smiles wider. Nice to end on a high note, for once.

* * *

Francis woke up at six a.m. feeling miserable, and things haven’t improved much since then. The pain in his ribs woke him up in the middle of the night, too, or perhaps it was Arthur. The Omega was whimpering and twitching in his sleep, and Francis couldn’t tell if he was having a nightmare of if it was just a particularly lively dream. The squeaks did have a plaintive quality that stirred something instinctive in Francis, and instead of waking Arthur he just slowly stroked his hair and whispered, _Shhhh, shhhh._ It took a few moments, but he did quiet. Francis had just held him—soothing, in an old, deep way, to hold someone smaller than himself—and it seemed the moment he nodded off again, Arthur’s alarm went off.

Watching Arthur run around dressing himself with one hand and complaining to someone on the phone with the other made some empathetic anxiety prick at Francis. He didn’t want to bother Arthur for anything, but thankfully he didn’t have to; Arthur brought him a frozen cloth to use as an ice pack and set a bottle of ibuprofen on the nightstand. “Gilbert is on his way,” he said, then left the bedroom, presumably to put the kettle on.

And now Gilbert is here. As soon as he sees Francis, his face contorts with shock and concern. “Holy shit. Kirkland said you were sick, not—what the hell happened to you?”

Francis tries to sit up, but it feels like he’s splitting himself in half. “I fell off the bed.”

Gilbert stares at him, dubious.

He’s not sure if this counts as a white lie or not, but he doesn’t like giving it to his friend either way. “It doesn’t matter what happened. What’s done is done.”

Gilbert steps closer, studying him. “You were hit in the face at least twice. And if you can’t get up, you were hit somewhere else, too. Do you want to tell me what happened, or do you want me to figure it out myself?”

Francis smiles, faint and rueful. Good to see Gilbert already trying out parenting techniques. “They were wearing masks.” He looks down at his hands in his lap. “They had bats.”

“You were _assaulted._ ” Gilbert’s intensity has Francis looking back up; his grey-red gaze is fixed on him and growing angrier by the second. “This is not something to just shrug off.”

Francis shrugs as best he can, fully aware of how impudent the gesture is.

Gilbert shakes his head. “There can only be so many people who would do this. It’s most likely someone from town. Your bail conditions aren’t public knowledge, so whoever did it would have to have seen you and Kirkland together . . .”

Francis knew this would happen. Showing a problem to a detective is like waving a treat in front of a dog’s nose; sooner or later it’ll bite, no matter how well-trained it is. “Gil, I appreciate that you want to find out who did this, but I think it’s best if we just leave it. Whoever did it could be dangerous, and if I’m found innocent, I don’t want anyone looking for revenge.” He meets Gilbert’s gaze. “And if I’m found guilty, people won’t think this was a crime. They’ll just call it karma.”

Gilbert opens his mouth to protest, but Francis isn’t finished: “Would you think it was wrong if Ivan Braginski was assaulted?”

The German Alpha hesitates. Francis can see aggression flicker through him, his shoulders tensing for a second, before he finally replies, “Ivan is a bad person. You’re a good person. That’s the difference.”

Francis gives another doleful smile. “I’m glad you think so.” He’s never been able to control Gilbert, personally or professionally, so he won’t bother trying now. “Do you think you could do me a favor?”

“Sure,” he says, without hesitation.

Gingerly, his side lamenting as it stretches, he reaches to pick up the glass from the bedside table. “Could you put some water in this?”

Gilbert takes the glass, brow lowering in disapproval. “Kirkland didn’t give you water?”

“He didn’t think of that, I guess.” Gilbert looks irritated, so Francis adds, “He focuses more on the big picture.”

“Dying of thirst is pretty big,” Gilbert remarks.

“Not everyone has protective Alpha instincts like yours, mon ami.”

It’s light, but Gilbert smiles. He heads to the kitchen to fetch the water. He’s torn, when it comes to Arthur Kirkland. Francis would either be in jail or watched by some state-mandated Alpha with control issues right now if it weren’t for the English Omega, so he should be grateful there. And Francis doesn’t seem to be suffering in his company, aside from the actual physical suffering he’s doing now. But on the other hand, Arthur Kirkland made Matthew cry. And he chose to defend the actions of Ivan Braginski, who also made Matthew cry. Those are the sort of people Gilbert would prefer to not deal with, lest things become violent.

While he’s filling the glass, Arthur comes back into the flat and demands to take Gilbert’s car. He can tell Arthur is holding back rage, and he doesn’t want to make him more upset by saying no. Gilbert watches him turn on his heel and stride out, but the call of _thank you_ gives him pause. He’s pretty sure that’s the first polite thing he’s ever heard out of the Omega’s mouth. He might be old-fashioned, but he doesn’t share Antonio’s—and Francis’s, apparently—taste for fiery Omegas. It’s not that he wants a servant afraid to speak his mind, but he also can’t imagine hugging Arthur or Lovino. They’re too prickly. He prefers someone more . . . fluffy.

“Arthur was just here,” Gilbert tells Francis. “He took my car.”

Francis accepts the glass of water and swallows a pair of pills. “Is his broken?”

“He didn’t say.” Gilbert sits on the end of the bed, beside Francis’s feet. “Is he always so defensive? I mean, does he ever smile?”

“Sure, he smiles.” Francis chuckles. “You would like him.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I do. He kind of reminds me of you, actually. When you get angry.”

“I’m cool as a cucumber,” Gilbert protests. _If one of us is the angry one, it’s Antonio._

“You are.” Francis laughs. “Almost all of the time.”

“Speaking of cool.” Gilbert heads out to the poor excuse of a living room, then returns with Francis’s coat in his hand. “They finally cleared it.”

Francis smiles, but it’s a hesitant thing. “Thank you, but—they didn’t find anything?”

Gilbert blinks. “No. Toni hasn’t told you?”

“No . . .”

Gilbert shakes his head. There isn’t exactly a rush to hand over exculpatory evidence, but Antonio usually doesn’t drag his heels this much. “No DNA. All clear. Hundred percent not incriminating.”

Francis eases back into the mountain of pillows. “Well. That’s good news.”

Gilbert wants to ask him so badly what happened that night, but he can’t choose when his ears are a friend’s or a detective’s. If Francis chose to remain silent during his interrogation, that’s what it’ll have to be now. Gilbert suspects it’s Arthur’s orders, because whatever becomes Gilbert’s knowledge becomes Antonio’s as well. Not that the reverse is always true . . . The world of lawyers is all about keeping others in the dark—even down to the legalese they speak. Gilbert’s world is far from perfect, but at least it’s not based on lies of omission.

“It is,” Gilbert agrees, standing. “Now. Feel like having breakfast? I make a mean slice of toast.”

Francis grins. “I thought you’d never ask.”

* * *

Once he’s back in the city, Arthur debates whether he should go to the office with Gilbert’s car or head back to his flat and waste time getting the paint off. The detective’s car isn’t as expensive, but at least it doesn’t have a dented fender. Then again, it’s not a strict requirement that Arthur go to his office. It’s a more comfortable space than his flat—by design—but he doesn’t owe Mikkel and Lars his presence. So long as he puts in billable hours, no one fusses over where they get done. Some law firms these days are entirely virtual, with the lawyers working from home. Despite his misanthropic tendencies, he suspects he’d go stir-crazy if the majority of his social interactions were restricted to words on a screen. _Not all people are intolerable,_ he allows as he turns into his building’s parking lot. _Mikkel and Lars aren’t too bad . . . to look at._

Red paint. It was red in England, and black, too. Arguably worse, there; they’d sprayed a dozen iterations of _slut, whore_ , and _murderer_ across the bay window on the front of the house. It had taken Arthur all day and a box of razors to scrape it off; his dam hadn’t let him back in until the window was spotless. _Look there,_ he’d said, as if Arthur wasn’t already looking at it, _look at what you’ve brought on yourself. That’ll hang over your head for the rest of your life._ And he’s right, isn’t he? He remembers it. He doesn’t drink himself to death over it, but he feels the pain of it with every too-fast thump of his heart. He’s tried not to be the person his family thought he was, and here’s plain proof that he’s failed.

He shivers as the wind picks up; it’s too fucking cold to stand out here with this autumn coat on. He pictures himself out here in the wool overcoat he bought himself last Christmas, draped over the hood like some parody of a sexy car wash scene, brushing flecks of hatred off his windscreen. He bought a paint scraper, but he’s still not enthusiastic. He wonders if there’s an Alpha kid dodging community service somewhere he could blackmail into doing this for him.

 _Or you could ask Beilschmidt to do it,_ a voice points out from the back of his head. Casually, like it’s calling over its shoulder while surfing TV channels. Like it’s not admitting defeat.

Well, it’s not. Not really. Sort of. It’s anti-equalist, isn’t it, an Omega needing help? Or is it enlightened and revolutionary for an Omega to accept help when he needs it? _Very revolutionary,_ he thinks, _to get someone to reach things on the top shelf._ Not that he cares about all that nonsense: the real question is why Gilbert would help him, specifically. You don’t have to be privy to the rumor mill in that cursed town to know the SVU detective is looming over Matthew William’s cradle, just waiting to rob the contents once they turn eighteen. Arthur has quite officially become The Enemy.

But it wouldn’t be . . . negative, to get closer with Beilschmidt. It would be beneficial, the same way ingratiating himself with the senior partners is beneficial. It could help him out, having _friends on the inside,_ as it were. And apparently he has some vehicular knowledge; how convenient would that be, to have someone he can call who won’t try to screw him over for being an Omega—and, therefor, extremely gullible?

The temperature outside gets him back up to the flat. He’s in the middle of an internal debate when he opens the door, and just as he walks in Gilbert is walking out of the bedroom.

“He fell asleep,” Gilbert says quietly, drawing the door shut. “How did the hearing go?”

“Jury’s selected,” Arthur replies. This feels peculiar. Like opposing sides falling limply into an alliance when they find out the planet is about to fly into the sun. “Could I—” Why is he phrasing this so meekly? But he probably shouldn’t command him. He pretends he’s asking Alfred to do something. “You’re not drowning in activities, are you?”

Gilbert’s brow furrows. “Excuse me?”

 _Damn it._ Whatever. He tips up his chin, puts his hands in his pockets. “I want you to help me.”

“With what?”

He wants to meet his gaze, but he can feel his chest warming already; he doesn’t want to start blushing. “There’s been a bit of vandalism.”

Gilbert’s expression doesn’t change, though there’s something _knowing_ about his eyes. “Alright.”

Arthur fills a bowl with warm water and leads the way down to the parking lot. He’s not sure what reaction he expected from the German Alpha, but it wasn’t grim resentment. “The same ones who attacked Francis.”

“Most likely,” Arthur agrees.

Gilbert glances down at him. “Does this bother you?”

Curious, how he asks that. Not like a doting Alpha; more like a doctor, going about his business, finding out where the pain is so he can set about fixing it. Arthur’s not about to cry over a silly name written on a window—though he did bite back several sobs when it happened the first time—but he is definitely bothered.

“Yes,” he replies evenly. “Ignorance bothers me.”

“Mm. Me, too,” Gilbert agrees. “When people do things without thinking about how they hurt people.”

Just like that, Arthur’s heart is racing. “If you’re going to tell me what a shitty human being I am while you do this, I’ll just do it myself. The paint is already doing a fine job informing me how highly I’m regarded.”

Gilbert stares at him. “What are you talking about?”

 _. . . Fuck._ “Nothing.” Arthur shoves the paint scraper into Gilbert’s hand. “Get to work. Or don’t. I’m not fussed either way.”

“You are, or you wouldn’t have asked,” Gilbert points out, but he starts scraping. Arthur stands there holding the bowl of water. He could go inside, but it seems rude, leaving this Alpha here with someone else’s humiliation. He’s in his overcoat now, so at least he’s warm below the neck. He wonders if Gilbert is colder, because of how pale he is. Don’t darker surfaces absorb more heat? He imagines Gilbert climbing into a heat nest. Like straddling a refrigerator.

“How’s Matthew?” he asks, an attempt at politeness.

The scraping pauses briefly, then continues more forcefully. “He’s fine.”

Arthur watches him. Tricky, this detective. The best way to find a limit is to push. “No thanks to me.”

Gilbert glances over his shoulder, surprised. “Yeah. He’s putting it behind him. He’s happier now that he has all of that out of his life.”

Back to scraping. Arthur ponders the meaning of _all of that_ and takes it to mean the emotionally draining litigation process. He has more than enough experience to know reporting an assault is too often just not worth it for the victim. It’s his _job_ to make it not worth it. _But it wasn’t going to be._ That thought is so old it has cobwebs clinging to the corners. He gets the little jolt of remembering something one hasn’t thought about for years.

“I don’t represent people who hurt pups,” Arthur says. He doesn’t recall choosing to voice it, but it’s out there now. “That was my rule, when I became a defense attorney. I’d never take a client who’d abused a minor.”

Gilbert stops again, turning around to face him. “Matthew is a minor. Feliciano is a minor.”

“I know that.” He meets his gaze. “Morals have a tendency to erode over time. But I’ve declined other cases. I didn’t represent an Alpha teacher who was charged with molesting a dozen eight-year-olds. I could’ve done exactly what I did to Matthew, but I didn’t.”

Something dangerous is growing in Gilbert’s eyes. “You expect me to congratulate you for that?”

“No.” He steps back, before he can stop himself. _Get yourself together._ “I’m just saying . . .” But what is he saying? That he could be worse? How comforting. He realizes now that although he knows how to suck up to his bosses at work, and he knows how to seduce a tipsy Alpha into fucking him in the backseat of his car, and he knows how to tie a witness with their own words until they have no choice but to give him the answers he wants—he has no idea how to make people like him.

Which frustrates him. He doesn’t need to appeal himself to Gilbert Beilschmidt. Fuck him. He’ll call Alfred if he’s that desperate for an Alpha’s assistance, not that Alfred is very good with cars. He’s ruined any chance he had to be a good person in the eyes of Gilbert and Matthew, so he’ll just carve them out of his life as he intended to do before all this happened with Francis. And since Francis and Gilbert are friends . . . well, it’s not as if he’s going to ask Francis to choose. _What would ever possess him to pick me?_

“Arthur,” Gilbert says, and the gentle rasp of his voice stirs a tearful sadness in Arthur’s chest, which is what makes him realize he’s already started to cry.

 _Goddamn it!_ “Don’t,” he snaps, at Gilbert and at himself. He turns away, still holding this stupid bowl of water and paint. He wants to hurl it at his car, shatter through the red **_WHO_ ** on the glass, maybe get one of those bats that savaged Francis and whale until his fenders match. His heart has that ugly, unmanageable feeling again, writhing in his chest. Didn’t he just take a pill? They’re supposed to relax his arteries, which he found funny when his doctor explained it. So his blood vessels are meditating on a beach while he flounders in the fifth level of hell. The miracle of modern medicine.

“Arthur,” Gilbert repeats insistently, so Arthur glowers at him, tears streaking his cheeks. “I understand. Work doesn’t always line up with personal belief. I get it.”

It’s a subtle sympathy, but there is some in the lines of that severe face. Arthur deflates a bit, swiping at his face with one woolly sleeve. “Being a good defense attorney and being a good person are two different things. I’ve only ever tried to be one. Now . . .” He looks down at his warped reflection in the bowl. He can’t really make out the details of his face, just the vague, bad idea of him. “It’s hard.”

A pause. “Self-improvement is good.”

Arthur scoffs. “Put that in a birthday card.”

“I just don’t really know what to say to you. If you’re defending what you did to Matthew, I’ll tell you to go fuck yourself.”

“As a lawyer, I will defend it,” Arthur replies. “As a person, I—” His voice wobbles a little, and he clears his throat until it hurts to punish it for the betrayal. “I regret it.”

The German Alpha studies him for a long moment, then turns back to the car. “Then I’ll work on forgiving you. It’s not healthy to hold grudges.”

Everything is a process, apparently. To be fair, if Gilbert had told him he was forgiven then and there Arthur wouldn’t have believed him, so he probably shouldn’t complain. Really, it’s a relief: proof that Francis hasn’t lost the plot, proof that his fondness for Arthur isn’t a fluke, proof that someone can go from hating him to liking him and not just the other way around.

“And Braginski?” Arthur asks. If Gilbert can absolve that man of his sins, he’s some kind of saint.

Gilbert doesn’t look at him, just says in a low voice, “That’s not a grudge. That’s a scar.”

* * *

Driving out of the city, Gilbert lets himself feel ashamed.

He was trying to be mad at Arthur, and then the Omega started crying and he wanted to hug him. It’s ridiculous; if an Omega was holding up a bank, would he let him go at the first sign of tears? He should feel satisfied, now that Arthur is getting the same treatment he gave Matthew, slut-shaming him for wanting to have a loving relationship. He’s not quite sure why _whore_ was the chosen word of hatred for the vandals. Are they implying Arthur and Francis are having sex? There’s a thought. Gilbert smiles to himself, amused. Then he stops smiling.

 _No, they can’t be._ It’s illegal, for one thing; attorney-client relationships can’t start in the middle of a case. They’re not advisable at all, what with the built-in bias they create. He can’t imagine Francis actually wanting to do something like that with the redcoat . . . but he keeps saying things like _It’s not so bad. You’d like him._ And, most telling of all, Gilbert remembers the protective growl that came out of Francis when Antonio turned on Arthur in the DA office. That’s the same response he would’ve had if someone snarled at Matthew. Maybe it’s a natural consequence of an Alpha and Omega living together, the instinct to keep them safe. But— _Arthur?_ He’s just so direct. At least Lovino keeps his remarks mostly polite, but Arthur seems to have no such filter. _No thanks to me,_ he said, precisely what Gilbert had been thinking. It’s disconcerting. He knows how to manipulate people. Perhaps those tears weren’t even real.

He was blushing in embarrassment, though, and furious when Gilbert tried to comfort him. So they were probably genuine. _Give him a break,_ he thinks. _Someone attacked his client and sprayed a slur on his car. Of course he’ll be upset._ If he and Francis are getting along well enough to help each other through that, it’s a good thing. Overcoming painful obstacles is like folding a blanket: it’s easiest if you have a person on either end, so they can meet in the middle.

For this obstacle, however, Gilbert is working alone. He can’t ask anyone else to get involved. For one thing, he can’t press charges on someone else’s behalf. For another, he just tampered with half the evidence by removing the paint from Arthur’s car. But most importantly—this is personal.

There are only so many villains in their little town, and only so many of that small number who have the connections to organize crime. It may not be Ivan Braginski’s work, but even if it isn’t, Gilbert is willing to bet he has knowledge of it. So he turns down a driveway that brings back terrible memories. That crooked tree is Matthew’s face as it crumples with tears. The wind howling around the house is Matthew’s scream when he fell asleep in the back of Gilbert’s car on the way to Iris House, haunted by nightmares of hands and teeth. The worst thing about this place by far is the little blue swing set in the backyard. Another broken generation. If Ivan had been convicted, his nephew would never be allowed back into this house with him. So that’s another reason he should be pissed at Kirkland.

He hates knocking on this door, but he doesn’t have a warrant to kick it in.

Ivan takes his sweet time opening it. When he sees who it is, his lips pull outward in a smug smile. There’s a glass of vodka in his hand, and a thick, ugly ring on one finger. “Good afternoon, Detective. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

There is no greater injustice in this world than the four inches Ivan stands taller.

“There was an attack last night,” Gilbert says, voice colder than the air this open door is letting into the house. “You know anything about it?”

Ivan takes a thoughtful sip of vodka. Gilbert watches the lump of cartilage in his throat bob as he swallows. He imagines it hard against his palm as he strangles him.

 _Patience._ A virtue easier found when dealing with victims than with bastards.

“No,” Ivan replies. “That doesn’t sound familiar. What happened? I hope he’s alright.”

Gilbert glares. “The victim’s welfare is none of your business.”

Now a spark comes into Ivan’s pale eyes. “No? Not even if he asks about me?”

He has to fight to keep the growl out of his words. Saying the name feels like surrendering some element of his Omega, but it’s staking a claim as well. “Matthew never talks about you. He couldn’t care less what happens to you. He probably doesn’t even think about you.”

Ivan chuckles, his delight growing with Gilbert’s anger. “Ah, he thinks of me. When he wakes up in the middle of the night. When you mate him, too.” He grins, canines glinting. “He likes it rough, did you know that?”

Gilbert’s not quite sure what happens next, but the next thing he knows he has an arm across Ivan’s chest, pinning him to the wall. Ivan’s grin seems impossibly wide, itching for a fight—one Gilbert’s not sure he would win. But it’s impossible. No matter how much hot rage is pumping through his veins right now, there is no way he can start swinging. This isn’t self-defense. And this isn’t how problems are solved in the civilized world, the world innocent people live in. He’s not going to sink to the level of a bad guy. His Matthew wouldn’t want this.

So he releases Ivan, steps back, out of the house, into the cold. He feels feral in the wind. He turns and walks back to his car, before he can do anything he’ll regret.

Ivan smirks, raising his glass. He didn’t spill a drop of vodka. “Next time you visit, bring our Omega with you. We can sh—”

Gilbert slams the door and roars away from the house, teeth grinding. He’ll never know for sure, but he’ll always blame Braginski.

* * *

It’s been a while since Alfred saw a beat-up face like that. He remembers the last time quite clearly, because he saw it every time he looked in the mirror for about two weeks. Not a nice way to wake up, especially with a hangover. _What the fuck? What did you do to me? I’m not a faggot!_ That was how he met Arthur, matter of fact. The Alpha—who didn’t have any problem letting him under his sheets when he was drunk—had represented himself and used the sunshiny _gay panic defense._ Arthur had been in the courthouse for a later hearing and observed Alfred’s out of pure morbid curiosity. Afterward—Alfred wound up with ten grand to fix his nose and get himself a fifteen-inch pizza—Arthur stopped him in the hall. _That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen. Why in God’s name did he represent himself?_ Alfred had given him a smile with his monster mask of a face. _If you thought that was bad, you should see him in bed._

They pretty much had to become friends, after that.

“Damn,” he says admiringly. “Nice shiner, dude.”

Francis gives a self-deprecating smile, propped up against Arthur’s collection of pillows. “You should see the other guy.”

Alfred grins. He settles on Arthur’s side of the bed, his ankles crossed over Francis’s. He can tell Francis isn’t the type to protest something like this, and he’s pretty sure Francis is the physically affectionate type, like Alfred is. Arthur will sometimes allow an arm around his shoulders or legs across his lap, but right now he just leans against the window, flipping through Alfred’s notepad.

“ _Preacher dick_ ,” Arthur reads, raising an incredulous eyebrow.

“It’s a creative play on words,” Alfred tells him. “It’s short for dictator. And he’s kind of a douche, also.”

“Alright. We’ll start with that.” Arthur holds out his free hand. “Give me those. You can’t chew and speak at the same time.”

Alfred gives his bag of mini cheese crackers to Francis. “You might not give them back,” he tells Arthur’s puzzled face, and is quite pleased at both Arthur’s eyeroll and Francis’s smile. “So I went to the church and had a little private chat with Vargas. One second he says God forgives rape victims. Next second he says people who have sex before pair-bonding are the scum of the earth.”

“That’s religion for you,” Arthur says, dismissive.

“But think about that,” Alfred says, tapping his temple to demonstrate. “That’s what Feliciano grew up hearing. So if he found himself, y’know, down on his luck—automatic sinner status. Time to revoke your good boy preacher’s kid card.”

“He very well could be pregnant,” Arthur remarks. “The bullfighter was awfully miffed when it reared its ugly head at my office. That could’ve been right after he found out. Bonnefoy, take a breath, before you come apart.”

Francis is looking quite horrified at the current topic of conversation. Alfred spares a moment to consider how he would feel if he got some random Omega pregnant. He’s more likely to get struck by lightning, but if that happened he’s sure he’d be upset. So he takes a tiny cracker-and-cheese sandwich out of the plastic bag and offers it. “Don’t freak out. I’m not saying it’s yours.”

“Then whose?” Francis asks, crunching the salty gift.

Arthur’s eyes glint in a way that means his mind is racing. “Hmm. The virginal reverend’s Omega proves to be not so virginal after all, and to cover up his mistake he blames an easy target?”

Alfred tilts his head. “Wouldn’t somebody like Braginski have been a better patsy?”

“I said _easy_ target. People would’ve believed an evildoer is evil easier than they would a DDA, yes, but then Feliciano would have to deal with the consequences of that. Everyone knows Francis Bonnefoy won’t fight back.”

Francis winces as he sits up a bit straighter on the bed. “If they didn’t know before,” he says, breathless with the effort of moving a few inches, “they know now.”

“And Lovino has some degree of involvement with it all,” Arthur adds. His arms are crossed now, and he taps his fingers on one bicep, again and again like the rippling legs of a spider. “There’s no way Feliciano is keeping it a secret from him, as well.”

“Sounds good,” Alfred says. He’s not joking; he highly, highly doubts Feliciano Vargas has the emotional strength and wherewithal to pull off something like this by himself. “Where’s your proof?”

“This isn’t something we’ll find proof for. If those little Italians were stupid enough to give us anything, we’d have it by now. They’re clever.”

Francis shakes his head slowly, uneasy. “We don’t know how much Antonio has to use against me. He could have all sorts of incriminating things.”

Arthur’s fingers go still. “It all comes down to the rape kit. If I get a call saying it came in and nothing else, then they have substantial evidence pointing toward sexual assault with you as the rapist. If not . . .”

Alfred smiles, tossing a mini cracker into his mouth. “If not, we actually have a chance, boys.”

* * *

Gilbert already knows it’s a lost cause, but after the altercation with Braginski he feels infuriatingly useless. So he goes to the parsonage and lets Feliciano pour him some coffee. “Thank you,” he says, with as friendly a smile as he can manage. “I don’t want to be rude, but I wanted to talk to the reverend about something personal.”

Not entirely a lie, or he wouldn’t have said it. The Omega looks between Gilbert and Roma, and when he’s faced with nothing but reassuring smiles, he drops his gaze to the ground and retreats upstairs. Gilbert can distantly hear Lovino panting, if he strains his ears. He’s never mated an Omega in heat, but he has been close enough to know how much discipline it takes to control the mounting instincts. He’s been called in to save more than one Omega from the Alphas around him—once an Omega who went into heat for the first time in the presence of his older brother and three of his Alpha friends, and another time for a homeless Omega bundled in a tattered blanket, trying to nest with rags and bits of trash. He wasn’t sure, the first time, if his training would be enough to—well, to keep the Omega safe from him. But he managed. If he’s called in, he can get an Omega into a locked room or drive him to a hospital or shelter. It gets him . . . _on edge_ every time, occasionally to the point of no return. On the nights he tosses and turns until five a.m. (not often, but it happens) he thinks not about these Omegas, but about the ones that don’t have people to call the SVU for them.

Roma dips a brittle little cookie into his coffee. “What did you want to talk about, Detective?”

That just reminds him of Ivan. He sips his coffee, on the off chance it’ll burn the negativity out of him. It’s way too sweet, because he told Feliciano he’d have it _The same as yours._ Matthew would like it. That thought cheers him a bit, at least. “Francis Bonnefoy was attacked last night. I just wondered if you’d heard anything about it. You never know what people might confess.”

The reverend’s brow furrows deeply. “No. No one has come forward. But I will let you know, if someone does.”

Gilbert can only thank him and drink the rest of his sugar water.  _Well. I tried._

* * *

Antonio’s not overly excited at the prospect of Gilbert stopping by his office to, as his text ominously said, _talk._ Even though Gilbert’s only two years older, Antonio often feels like he’s a misbehaving pup to the disgruntled adult. To be fair, most of the time it’s on purpose. Antonio is the one who grabs Gilbert and Francis by the hands and leads them into a good time, grinning and hooting all the while until his friends simply have to join him. But even when Antonio knows he’s doing what he has to do, Gilbert’s stoic gaze can unnerve him. It gives Antonio a good idea of how Francis feels, though he’s not too keen on relating to the French Alpha these days.

But when Gilbert comes in and straddles Francis’s chair and tells him Francis was assaulted by two masked men weilding baseball bats . . .

Antonio slumps back slightly in his chair. This is Francis. Twig-armed Francis Bonnefoy. _Strong enough to hurt an Omega,_ says a dark voice in his head. But even so. He doesn’t believe in eye-for-an-eye, in drawing blood. He joined countless debates in high and law school about why the death penalty should not be reinstated. Sitting in prison for life, haunted by the memory of your mistakes, is obviously far worse punishment than death. It’s not right, civilians taking justice into their unqualified hands. It’s spanking a pup and saying, _Don’t hit!_ Pure hypocrisy.

“Well . . .” He rubs the back of his neck and says the most readily available words, something he typically avoids while at the office. “That’s fucked up.”

“This is all fucked up,” Gilbert says, resting his chin on his forearms.

“Swear words sound so much worse in a German accent,” Antonio remarks, with a vague attempt at humor. He pings one of his pens so it spins across his current stack of paperwork.

Gilbert heaves a sigh. Antonio heaves a sigh. Silence kicks its feet up on the desk.

“I’ve been thinking,” Gilbert finally says.

Antonio glances up. Was the news of Francis’s more recent tragedy only a prologue? Is this where the real _talk_ will begin?

“I was thinking,” Gilbert tells him, sitting up, “we should take the Omegas out somewhere.”

 _Oh._ At last, a pleasant surprise. And how wonderful is the phrase _the Omegas_? Only bested, of course, by the implication: _our Omegas._ “Matthew and Lovino?”

“And Feliciano,” adds the German Alpha. “He shouldn’t be left out.”

“No, of course not,” Antonio agrees. “Where would we take them?”

“Not sure yet,” Gilbert admits. “But I was kinda leaning toward a skating rink.”

 _I wonder why._ Antonio can’t help but smile. “I have no idea how to skate.”

“Me neither. But it’s good exercise.” Which is a good enough excuse for Gilbert to try many things, including yoga.

Antonio knows this is at once bonding time for the Omegas and a peace offering between the two Alphas. He knows, too, that Gilbert’s job isn’t to take one side or the other, so it’s unfair to expect him to do that. And he knows that few things stress him out more than perfecting the jury questionnaire, so he hasn’t been the friendliest as of late.

“It’s a yes from me,” he replies. “But I won’t ask Lovi and Feli right away. I mean, not right after Lovi’s heat ends. I’ll give him a couple days to get back on his feet.”

“Of course,” Gilbert says as he stands up and wheels Francis’s chair back to the desk. “No rush.” He gives him a small, respectful nod. “I’ll let you get back to work.” He pauses in the doorway. “It was good talking to you, Toni.”

Antonio smiles at the Gilbert version of _thank you for still being my friend._ “You, too, Gil.”

* * *

At the risk of sounding creepy, Antonio has been impatiently waiting for his secretary’s heat to pass. There is some pragmatism to it; when Lovino comes back to work, it’s easier for everyone who works in the office. But mostly he just wants to see him, and talk to him, and touch him.

He comes over a day after the heat should be over, to lessen the chances of intruding. Roma is giving an afternoon service and Feliciano is boiling some pasta in the kitchen, so Antonio is alone with Lovino in the living room. The Omega sits with a cushion on his lap, reminding Antonio of his brother. His cheeks are no longer flushed—if anything, in fact, he looks paler than usual—and his eyes no longer hold the desperate light they did when Antonio last saw him. But the way he smells . . . God, even though he’s obviously bathed since his heat, he still smells intoxicatingly sweet. The scent makes Antonio want to smile, but the Omega’s words don’t allow that.

“So,” Lovino says, with the flatness of numbed pain. “I’m an uncle.”

Antonio wishes he was sitting closer, so he could slip a comforting arm around his shoulder. “It’s pretty bad news to come back to.”

Lovino nods slowly, looking down at his lap. His fingers fray at the fringe bordering the cushion.

Antonio wants so, so badly to lift that head, make a smile bloom across that beautiful face. As soon as the words come to his tongue, he says them, without a thought to how they may be received: “I’ll do my best to help you. Both of you. I know you and the reverend don’t share a lot of beliefs, so . . . I don’t know how I can help, but if there’s something I can do, I’ll try.”

Lovino looks at him. It only lasts a moment, this look, but it sticks in Antonio’s mind: the slightly parted lips, the wide hazel eyes, the cheek that would fit so perfectly against his palm. Then Lovino is against him, hugging him, face buried in Antonio’s shoulder.

It takes him a few seconds to process this. _Glad._ He’s so glad. He wraps his arms around the Omega, nuzzles gently into his hair. The smell of him, God—Antonio wonders if he can legitimately get drunk on it.

Lovino quivers, and with a start Antonio realizes he’s crying. Guilt stabs right through him; he’s shocked there’s no blood on the sofa. “Don’t cry, Lovi,” he whispers. He has no idea how to soothe him. Should he rock him, like a pup? He settles for stroking him, from his hair down to the small of his back, over and over again. This would make Antonio feel better, so perhaps it’ll work on Lovino, too.

“I-I’m sorry,” Lovino says through a sob, muffled by Antonio’s shirt.

 _Shit._ Now he’s shaming him for being upset! He smooths his hair down. “No, no, no, it’s alright, don’t feel bad about crying. I cry all the time,” he lies. “Don’t feel bad, Lovi. It’s not your fault.”

Lovino doesn’t say anything else, so Antonio doesn’t either. They just hold each other until Feliciano comes in to tell them lunch is ready—and even at the table, Lovino’s tear-reddened eyes never leave him. Meeting that hazel gaze feels like a challenge, but not the territorial sort from Alpha to Alpha. No, this is a challenge to _take me or leave me,_ and Lovino’s bravado keeps his chin lifted as if he doesn’t care either way. Antonio looks back at him, unwavering. Lovino arches one fine eyebrow. _Well?_

Antonio smiles. _I accept._


	11. Patching Things Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this would've been up yesterday but it was my birthday so forgive me i'm an old man :p

As it turns out, despite his proclaimed hatred for it and constant loud-voiced complaints from the kitchen, Arthur can actually cook. He follows Francis’s instructions for more complicated things and surprises Francis by waking him in the morning with a plate of French toast and a glass of orange juice. It’s a bit overcooked—the toast, not the juice—but far from inedible. “This is really good,” Francis says, smiling encouragingly. “You should cook more often.”

“How dare you.” Arthur glares with a teasing light in his eyes that makes something wriggle pleasantly in Francis’s chest. “The Omega’s place is not the kitchen. I’ll call the equalists on you.”

Francis laughs. “If they’re not already after me.” Who knows, it could’ve been some equalist group who sent those bat-wielding assassins. But, though his ribs are still very tender and the skin has taken on some rather alarming new colors, he finds he isn’t worried about it. It’s impossible to say for sure, but he suspects the Francis who existed before all this would have been paranoid that the door would be kicked in at any moment, and driven to anxious tears by bedtime that someone would hate him this much. Now, he’s almost  . . . well, yes, he’s taken it on the chin, just like Arthur told him to. He won’t repress things as much as the English Omega does, but he will admit that black humor does make a good shield against the nastier tendencies of humanity. In a world of blades, it helps to have a sharp edge of your own.

Just not to the point where you can’t get close to someone without cutting them.

Arthur walks out, then returns with his own plate of toast and a cup of tea which he sets on the nightstand. He sits cross-legged toward the foot of the bed, his plate resting on Francis’s shins. He’s wearing boxers and the same oversize T-shirt he wore for yoga. These past few days have had lazy starts—aside from jury selection day—because Arthur hasn’t gone to the office. Francis isn’t complaining; this feels more domestic than anything he ever had with Antonio, let alone at home with his parents.

When he sees it, he has to do a double take. No, he wasn’t seeing things; there’s a little blue-black smudge on Arthur’s ankle, too tiny to be a bruise. Francis squints, head tilted. “Is that a tattoo?”

Arthur straightens his leg. Francis tilts his head to read it. _04/08/11_ , curved over the pale knob of his ankle bone. “Don’t tattoos over bones hurt more?”

Arthur tears a chunk from his piece of toast and gives only an affirmative grunt.

Francis watches him draw his leg back into place. “What is it, the date?”

“Personal,” the Omega replies shortly.

 _Fair enough._ “Do you have any others?”

“Yes. One other.”

Francis can’t say he’s entirely surprised. He recalls a quite drunk Antonio grabbing his hand and saying _Let’s get tatted!_ To which Francis had dug in his heels and said _Oh, let’s not._ He doesn’t regret it, though he’s fairly sure Antonio will get inked at least once before he dies. It’s not an ambition Francis has ever shared. “What is it?”

Arthur points to his tea and holds his hand open, so Francis passes the cup to him. “A guitar made out of a skull,” he replies, once he’s had a sip. “You know, with the base bit as the skull. It’s pretty terrible.”

Francis smiles. At least he’s self-aware about it. “Where is it?”

Arthur starts to gesture to his thigh, then stops. “Just—around.”

“Around,” Francis echoes, amused.

“Mm. One of the less stupid decisions I made in my teens, if you can believe it.”

Francis is of course immediately curious, but he assumes outright that this is bait on a deadly hook. Especially since the other tattoo was private. Despite Arthur’s gradual warming-up, it’s still no good to press him on matters of the past. Even in that, Francis can’t help but feel envious. His past isn’t nightmarish, but there were some not-so-great moments—and yet he would never decline the opportunity to talk about them. Is it because he’s an attention whore? Or because a burden shared is a burden halved? Or just because he considers himself so uninteresting a snatch of past tragedy is all he has to his name?

 _Well, I’ve got more recent tragedies now,_ he thinks. _I’m sure they’ll be great conversation pieces in prison._

“I cared too much what people thought of me,” Francis says. “When I was younger.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Wow. Good thing you got over that.”

Francis’s first instinct is to pout, but he stops himself. “There’s nothing wrong with a work in progress.”

“Provided you make progress at some point,” Arthur stipulates. “Well, and provided you’re not a serial killer partway through a spree.”

“I’m ninety-eight percent sure I’m not a serial killer.”

Francis expects a remark about the accusations laid against him, but Arthur surprises him with a laugh. “You’ve got that going for you, at least.”

* * *

The island in the kitchen is one of Mikkel’s favorite things in the house. It’s black marble—of course it is, he loves black marble—and it was one of the first improvements he made after winning a big case years ago. He remembers the night fondly: sharing a bottle of rich red wine over their expensive marble, then christening it by lifting his priceless mate onto it and . . . well, let’s say Lukas was more beautiful than the marble and more deliciously intoxicating than the wine could ever hope to be.

So Mikkel smiles automatically when he finds Lukas sitting at the island, but the fond expression shatters when his eyes fall to the catalogue Lukas is perusing. His voice comes out closer to a growl than he intended. “I thought we agreed.”

Lukas glances up calmly, unperturbed by the agitation rumbling in Mikkel’s chest. “We did.”

“Then what are you doing?” Mikkel can’t stand to even look at the papers, but he knows what’s on them. More information than he would ever want to know about a pack of Alphas who donated semen. Hair color, eye color, skin tone, height, weight—these he can at least understand. But then they go on to detail everything from their life goals to their educational history to their feelings about pets and music. Mikkel hated becoming a third wheel to Lukas’s one-sided dates with these anonymous Alphas in his twenties, and a decade hasn’t changed his feelings.

“I’ve just been thinking about it more and more lately,” Lukas replies, in the light tone he uses when he wants to tell Mikkel to calm down without actually voicing the request. He’s used it a few times at corporate parties, but never in their own home. “I’m thirty-seven. The risks get higher every year after thirty-five.”

The risks, yes, the risks. They’ve been to three different doctors who all spewed the same words: _geriatric, ectopic, genetic disorders._ And all three of them, after taking the better part of an hour to tell them everything that could go wrong, finished with _But, of course, there is risk with every pregnancy._ It gave Lukas hope, but it sickened Mikkel. So they’d talked about it, and they’d agreed it was better for them to leave the baby-making to other people and just enjoy each other like they’d been doing up to then. And everything was happy and back to normal.

And now he’s coming into the kitchen to find Lukas moving his fingertips across the interests of some orthodontist—kayaking and reading—with more gentle intimacy than he’s given Mikkel for weeks.

“But we both work,” Mikkel protests, one of the points they’d been in utter agreement with when they’d had this conversation years ago.

“I know.” Lukas regards him, not without compassion. “But we won’t be working forever.”

“I’m not retiring at fifty.” He’s only just matured enough to admit that he will probably die someday. Retirement is not one of his current priorities.

“Well, you don’t have to,” Lukas says, the light tone returning with a definite edge. “I could stay home with the pup. I wouldn’t mind doing that. There was a time when I based my self-worth on my job, but I don’t do that anymore.”

“What do you base it on now?” Mikkel asks. “Kids?”

Lukas’s beautiful blue eyes, deep and steady as a waveless ocean, meet Mikkel’s without difficulty. “Happiness.”

Mikkel turns away. Lukas is one of the few people on this planet he can’t challenge. He drags a hand down his face, heaves a long breath. He can hear the things he’s saying and he knows how bad it sounds for an Alpha to criticize an Omega for wanting to have children. But they _agreed._

“I know you don’t like change,” Lukas says gently.

Mikkel glances at him. He considers himself more liberal than conservative, but no, on the whole he does not enjoy significant change.

Lukas turns in his chair to face Mikkel, hands clasped neatly in his lap. Regal, is his Lukas, always. “Haven’t you thought about what you’re going to leave behind? Your legacy?”

“Yeah. I have.” The words feel sour on his tongue. This is the sort of change he despises above all else, the root of the fear. “I’ve thought about who I would want to replace me in the firm.”

“Who?”

“Kirkland.”

“Mick—”

“Don’t start,” Mikkel says. This is precisely why he hasn’t talked about this with Lukas before, because he knows how Lukas feels about Arthur. There are plenty of senior partners who would do fine in the leadership position Mikkel and Lars share, but he wants his firm to stay the way it is. There are very few attorneys in his firm he trusts to keep things as they are, and few who stand tense with the same restless ambition and self-worth issues Mikkel had when he was only an associate. “He’s a good lawyer. Ruthless, like I was.”

Lukas presses his lips together. “Is that what you want to encourage?”

“I’m not his sire.” Mikkel’s not sure where this is coming from. Lukas wouldn’t be his mate if he couldn’t distinguish between personal morals and professional morals. Of course Mikkel doesn’t believe people should be allowed to murder other people, but somebody has to represent murderers. They’ve never had an argument about the tactics Mikkel uses to do so. In fact, he’s pretty sure Lukas used to think his arrogance was sexy. He’s not quite sure when that wore off. “I’m his employer.”

“You would be a good sire.” Lukas turns back to the catalogue. “That’s all I’m saying.”

“No, that’s only a sliver of what you’re saying.” Mikkel wonders suddenly if Lukas hasn’t argued with him about ethics because Mikkel is a lawyer, and you know what they say about arguing with lawyers. “I thought you were happy with me.”

“I am.” Lukas looks at him again, eyes as bright as his tone is emphatic. “But I want us to make a family together.” He reaches to take Mikkel’s hand. “I don’t want this to make you feel inferior.”

Mikkel grimaces, torn. What do you do when the thing that makes your mate happy is the thing that makes you feel like a rug is being pulled from beneath your feet? “I don’t want a different secretary.”

Lukas raises a knowing eyebrow. “Mick. Is that really what’s stopping you from starting a family? From carving a legacy to be proud of?”

_“Stop.”_

They both go quite still. It wasn’t a shout, but it was loud enough that the following silence rings hideously in their ears. Lukas’s fond look is gone. Mikkel regrets his tone, but he can’t take it back now.

“Stop saying legacy,” he continues, lower now. “That pup won’t be my legacy.”

Lukas shakes his head. “Don’t think that way. Blood isn’t that important. This isn’t the Middle Ages. All that matters is that the pup is ours, in our hearts. We could adopt, for that matter.”

Mikkel imagines faceless social workers sifting through his life. “No.” He pulls his hand free of Lukas’s grasp. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” He turns, starts to walk away. “Just leave it.”

Lukas looks down at the catalogue. His voice is harder than the marble, now. “Is that it? You’d rather be with an Omega like Kirkland? One who would rather be an Alpha?”

Mikkel stands in the doorway, shoulders stiff, then shakes his head and storms out. If Lukas doesn’t trust him, he’ll give him a reason not to.

* * *

Francis lasts three days before he declares he needs to wash his hair. “I feel filthy,” he says, tucking oily strands of hair behind his ears and grimacing at the residue left on his fingers. “Ugh.”

Arthur is pleased to see the golden waves are in fact capable of falling to greasy scraggles. He leans in the bedroom doorway, observing the invalid. “How are you going to do that if you can’t lift your arms over your head?”

“Well . . .” Francis looks down at his limbs as if struggling to remember their function. “I guess I’ll have a bath.”

And so begins the journey. Francis has been managing the trek to and from the bathroom since his injury—thank God, Arthur’s not _that_ devoted to the frog—so Arthur doesn’t bother supervising. He goes back to his desk, where his laptop is waiting with a concerningly blank document where an opening statement should be. It’s not entirely his fault, since he’s not sure what his argument strategy will be until that rape kit comes in. _But that’s never stopped you before,_ nags a voice in the back of his head. And it’s not incorrect; he’s written four different opening statements in the past when he wasn’t sure which would turn out to be most effective. He’s also stayed up all night long working in the past. Something about having his client in his flat makes it hard to view the case as a writing assignment or a debate he’s being paid for. It’s more real, with Francis here. Hypotheticals and strong points dance out of reach when he tries to think of something to type. He should be looking at this objectively, just like the judge will. But Francis’s innocence seems less important than how deceptive his jawline is: in profile, he looks tough and masculine, but when he turns to look at you and his eyes sparkle and he smiles with surprisingly soft pink lips you know he’s not tough at all, just beautiful.

Arthur watches the line blink-blink-blinking. He rests his fingertips on the keys. He sighs. Perhaps he should—

_CRASH._

Arthur’s up and at the bathroom door in seconds. “Are you alright?”

“Yes! Fine.” A slight pause. “Don’t come in.”

“I wasn’t going to.” He listens, but he doesn’t hear anything except muffled panting. “Have you broken your hip? Can you get up?”

Another pause, and Arthur almost doesn’t hear the pitiful whine through the door. He grabs the knob, but before he can turn it Francis says, “No, please, don’t.”

“Why?”

“Well—I’m not exactly _decent._ ”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Why would I care?”

“This isn’t a flattering pose.”

“Probably not. Are you on the floor?”

“Yes. I can’t balance properly, my core is too weak. Because it hurts. So I fell over.”

“Falling down on bruised ribs probably felt great—”

“Nope.”

“—and I presume you can’t lift yourself back up.”

“. . . not so much.”

“So I’ll come in and help you.”

Here’s another pause, and Francis actually sounds a bit prickly: “Would you let me pick you up if you were naked on the floor?”

Arthur considers that. He doesn’t care about people seeing his body usually, but it’s different somehow with Francis. Granted, Francis isn’t the only one he’d refuse. He could be bleeding to death and he would still bite Antonio’s fingers if he tried to pick him up. Gilbert wouldn’t be _terrible_ , with his occupation and Germanity. Alfred would be ideal, of course, mostly because he’s already seen Arthur naked after an unfortunate game of strip poker during a blizzardy power outage. Arthur had been genuinely surprised that nothing sexual happened that night—especially with all the brandy they were drinking—but it turns out homosexuality is just what it says on the tin. Arthur had woken up on the futon wearing one of Alfred’s shirts and had pretended not to remember what happened the night before, because that desperate, sloppy, drunken creature was best to leave behind. Alfred didn’t blame him for it, though. They’ve gotten to the point where they just assume they’re even and forget the reckoning of favors, but Arthur suspects if they tallied it up he’d be in debt to Alfred.

He wonders if he’s in debt to Francis yet. Does he owe Gilbert, for the paint? _All you do is use people._ Yes, and people use him and they’re all going to die. He wishes there was some simple filter he could buy and install in his head, to keep these black thoughts out.

“Well,” he says, “how about I put a towel on you?”

“Okay,” Francis allows, reluctantly.

So Arthur puts one hand over his eyes like a git and edges in, paranoid of tripping over Francis’s legs. He withdraws a towel from the cupboard beneath the sink and drops it in the general direction of the felled Alpha. “Put this over whatever’s PG-13.”

After some fussy process Arthur can only imagine, Francis says, “Alright, you can open your eyes.”

Arthur obeys. Francis is lying on his side with his legs haphazard across the floor, propped up on his elbow, obviously very uncomfortable. He’s taking up pretty much all the open space available on the tiles. Arthur tries to estimate the trajectory. “Did you bounce off the toilet?”

Francis winces as he cranes his neck to survey his resting place. “I think that might’ve happened, yes.”

Arthur can’t help but smirk.

“Don’t laugh at my pain,” Francis protests, only half-joking.

“So long as I help you,” Arthur says wisely, “I’m allowed to laugh.”

Francis shifts slightly and winces again. “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“Well, you’re obviously an only child.” Arthur crouches. It takes some doing (and paranoid towel-grabbing) but they eventually get Francis back on his feet again. Arthur hates to look at the bruises and angry red marks across Francis’s torso. He’s no stranger to damage—inside and out—so it’s not a matter of being squeamish. It’s the useless hatred of it that drives Arthur mad. Those bruises are stupid, infuriatingly stupid. They shouldn’t be there. Francis should not be quivering with the effort it takes to keep himself upright. It’s ignorant and so utterly wrong it makes Arthur itch with impotence, because there’s nothing he can do about it but ease the recovery. If given the choice between nursing and confronting the Alphas who did this, he’d much prefer the latter, but one must play the cards he’s dealt.

“Thanks,” Francis says breathlessly. “I’ll be fine, now.”

“You’ve already proven you can’t get into this bath by yourself,” Arthur remarks, still bearing at least half of the French Alpha’s weight.

Francis is already using most of his energy to silence whimpers, so he surrenders swiftly. Arthur helps him lower himself down into the water, then tugs the towel away before it can get soaked, like a magician at the end of a trick. Francis somehow seems more naked now that his bottom half is concealed by bubbles. He looks more comfortable now, at least.

“Well,” Arthur says, folding the towel. “That was relaxing.”

Francis sinks down into the water, until foam clings to the untrimmed stubble on his chin. “Merci.”

“You’re welcome.” Arthur leaves the towel beside the bath and turns to go. “When you need my help to get out just fall down again.”

“Mouais, I’ll get right on that.”

But Arthur can hear the smile in his voice.

* * *

Tino must’ve seen his car pulling in the driveway, because he’s waiting in the hall when Berwald walks in at lunchtime. Tino is bundled in a fuzzy turtleneck sweater Berwald got him for his birthday three—no, four, God—years ago. He smiles up at Berwald with that sweet, round face. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

Berwald doesn’t say a word, just pulls him close and nuzzles into Tino’s neck. Tino’s smile widens and he tilts his head, tugging his sweater down so Berwald can taste him. Tino sighs softly, his small hands warming Berwald’s chest. “It’s been a long time.”

“It’s been five years,” Berwald rumbles.

Tino laughs. “Ber,” he says, at once teasing and scolding.

Berwald wraps his arms around his mate, holding Tino against him and giving a low, groaning growl. It’s a claiming gesture that warms Tino in his heart and a couple other places as well. He turns around in Berwald’s arms and stretches up on his tippy toes to kiss him. It doesn’t take long for lips to part, and from there tongues probe and stroke. Tino makes a soft sound when Berwald’s hands squeeze his padded hips. “No,” he mumbles into Berwald’s mouth, “you’ll hurt yourself.” But Berwald’s instincts are louder than his mate, and so he lifts Tino up into the air with the intention of pinning him against the wall as he’d done countless times when they were young.

They both hear something pop in his spine. Berwald staggers and Tino’s feet thump back to the floor. Tino’s eyes stretch wide. “Are you okay? I told you I was too heavy.”

Slowly, Berwald straightens himself back up. He clenches his teeth to stifle a short whine at the pain in his back. He’s been to the hospital for it more than once, but his doctor couldn’t find anything wrong. Berwald suspects it’ll keep bothering him until he slips a disc someday. He used to get Tino to walk on his back, but he won’t do it now that he’s put on twenty-five pounds of baby weight. Berwald might have to recruit Peter, after this incident.

“Go lie down, dear,” Tino says, with a gentle smile. “I’ll get the heating pad.”

Berwald stretches himself out on the sofa. This isn’t exactly how he imagined spending his lunch break at home. He and Tino have never been very romantic in the theatrical sense; they don’t really set out candles or play sexy music or invest in lingerie. All Berwald needs is Tino, and his mate must feel the same because he’s never complained. Now that they have Peter, Berwald doesn’t have as much time to worship Tino’s body like he used to, but he has managed to convince Tino he doesn’t mind the extra weight—on the contrary, it drives him quite wild. The only concerns Tino voices about their relationship are about himself: his weight, his stretch marks, his wrinkles. Berwald morbidly wishes Tino would complain about _him_ instead, so he can hear his self-criticisms voiced and thus validated: his back is shoddy, his eyes are failing him, and his hair retreats more and more each year. _Getting old,_ the deadliest disease known to man.

Tino returns with a smile and a heating pad, an old-fashioned one full of rice. Berwald lifts himself up so Tino can slip it under the small of his back. He smooths Berwald’s hair—such as it is—and cups his cheek with his soft, warm palm. “You look sad.”

Berwald doesn’t bother faking a smile. As a justice, those days are behind him. “I’m not the youngest judge in the state anymore.”

“Well, you’re the youngest judge in this house,” Tino points out cheerfully. “But you’re also the oldest. And the only.”

Berwald looks at up at him. All he needs is the look; no words are required to express his combination of weariness, frustration, and amusement, which is a good thing indeed because he has no idea what he would say to get that across.

Tino smiles fondly, eyes crinkled in the corners. “But do you know what else you are?”

Berwald raises an eyebrow.

His mate leans down to kiss his cheek. “The best.” He rubs the tip of his nose against Berwald’s, something Berwald used to do to make Tino giggle when he was feeling glum. “I’ll make you a sandwich. Coffee?”

“Coffee,” agrees Berwald, and enjoys the view of his mate walking off to the kitchen.

* * *

Arthur is working at the table, actually getting things done, when Francis calls for him. He abandons his laptop mid-sentence—a trick his secretary impressed upon him, to better ensure continuation upon return—and goes to the bedroom. Francis’s glass of water is full and he hasn’t managed to fall down again, so Arthur asks, “What do you want now?”

Francis smiles. “I want you to take a break.”

If Arthur could make his eye twitch on demand, he would do it now to emphasize his point. “Do you know how many things I have to do?”

“Yes,” replies Francis, reminding Arthur that he is a lawyer as well, “and a ten-minute break will make you more productive. Brains can only focus on one thing for so long, you know.”

That brings to mind an image of Francis and Antonio, crammed in that little office, taking breaks throughout the day to do . . . well, whatever Alphas do for fun. Arm-wrestle, maybe, though that seems like a foregone conclusion between Francis and Antonio. Arthur rolls his eyes, but he sits down on the bed opposite Francis, so his feet rest on one of the infinite pillows.

“Alright,” he says. “Fine. I’m taking a break. A break is what I’m taking. How revolutionary.”

“Vive la révolution,” Francis says.

Arthur scoffs. “Is that in your contract?”

Francis smiles, indulgent, and mimes checking a box with an invisible pen. The look is so playful and damnably fond Arthur has to look away.

“Well,” Francis says after a moment. “Isn’t this nice.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow at him.

The French Alpha laughs. “Tell me something you’ve never told anyone.”

Arthur struggles to think if there’s some inoffensive anecdote he can dredge up that he hasn’t done before with Alfred.

Francis must take the silence for reluctance, because he offers, “I can go first.”

“Go on, then.”

Francis squints at the ceiling, then snaps his fingers. “I’ve never smoked weed.”

“. . . Wow.”

He blinks. “Have you?”

“Like ten years ago,” Arthur replies. “Not my thing.”

He’s been offered it since then—by Alfred more than once—but he’s always declined. It’s a different sort of surrender than alcohol. He’d rather be totally out of control than just slowed, muffled. It makes him feel peaceful, he supposes, and nothing gets done by peaceful people.

“I almost did, once,” Francis boasts. “At a party. Toni said it would mellow me out but I didn’t want to try it for the first time with all those people around. Then he tried it and it made him really sad. He just wanted to go home after that, so we did.”

Did weed make Arthur sad? Sometimes. Usually when he was already sad to begin with, which was often back then. His mate—Arthur hates the term for its implication of love and support, but they don’t accept _fuck buddy_ on the census—liked marijuana. And cigarettes. And anything else he could get his hands on to smoke or snort or shoot. Arthur never did anything with needles, and the one time he worked up the courage to do a line of snow he fucked it up and cough-sneezed it everywhere. That fight hadn’t ended for a month. The sex-and-drugs lifestyle looked a lot more appealing from the outside than it did lying on the floor.

“Your turn,” Francis reminds him.

Arthur shakes his head. “I can’t really think of anything.”

“Can I ask you things, then? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” Francis adds quickly.

His mouth twists. “I guess.”

“What’s your sign?”

Arthur snorts. “God, I don’t know. I was born in April.”

“Taurus?” Francis says. “That would make sense. You are stubborn as a bull.”

 _And Antonio’s fighting me._ He imagines ramming his horns right through, and smiles faintly. “You don’t actually believe in that nonsense, do you?”

Even as he asks it, though, he’s thinking that he always used to believe in fairies and ghosts and fate and forces beyond what humans can fathom. Where did all that whimsy go?

Francis is reading something on his phone. “Your lucky gem is emerald.”

“So?”

“Well, your eyes are green,” Francis points out.

Arthur crosses his arms over his chest, aping an astonished face. “That proves it. All the secrets of the universe will be revealed.”

Francis ignores the sarcasm, reading, _“Smart, ambitious, and trustworthy.”_

“I’ll give you the first two.”

 _“All about sensuality, always seeking out pleasure,”_ Francis adds, smiling teasingly over the phone.

Arthur just smirks at him, because he’s not about to say it’s much easier to find someone to fuck you than someone to hold you.

_“Sometimes have trouble respecting authority.”_

“Don’t we all?”

“I suppose,” Francis muses.

“Did you not have a phase where you wore nothing but leather?”

“Uh.” Francis raises his eyebrows. “No?”

Arthur’s smile fades. “Oh. Well, me neither.”

The French Alpha grins suddenly, which startles Arthur into asking, “What?”

“I’m a Cancer, you know.”

“That’s not something to brag about.”

 _“Top love matches for Taurus,”_ Francis reads smugly. _“Virgo and Cancer.”_

“Let me see that.” Arthur snatches the phone, reads the line, and hands it back. “Well of course they’d put that there. That doesn’t mean it’s true. They probably just pick two at random for each sign. That’s just for teenagers and idiots.”

“If you say so,” Francis says, with that maddening smile still curling his lips. Then his tone changes slightly: “Have you told anyone that you had a punk phase?”

“No, I guess I haven’t.” If Jones knows, it’s because he’s seen Arthur in his leather jacket. The holes in his earlobes have grown over now; you can’t tell they were ever pierced. Certainly not worth the fuss his dam made about it, when he came crawling back with his tail between his legs.

“How did your family feel about it?”

Arthur’s scoff is involuntary. Endless fights, until they did end—with his dam shoving a pillowcase of miscellaneous belongings into his chest. _Get out of this house. Don’t show your face until you’re ready to ask me and God for forgiveness._ He’d risked a glance at his brothers, standing behind their dam like a row of security guards. If any felt regret, none showed it. So he flipped them all off and left them in the dust. The taste of victory was foul when you had to retch it back up again.

“They,” he says, careful to keep emotion from his voice, “were not fans of it.”

Francis watches him without judgement, so Arthur continues, “But I didn’t give a fuck. I was sick of being forced to be someone I wasn’t. So I cut my hair and I got tattoos and I did drugs.”

Francis still only watches, with a quiet, respectful curiosity. When Arthur meets his gaze, he says, “And you had sex.”

Arthur hesitates, half a breath. “There was a lot of that, yes.” He looks down at his lap. Even if he could keep his voice even for the next statement, the words will still betray him. “Money’s got to come from somewhere.” He can feel French eyes on him. “It wasn’t my idea, before you ask. I didn’t leave the house saying _I’m off to become a whore!_ My mate started it.” A sneer has his words coming out bitter. “It was clever, the way he did it. We were all drunk, me and him and a friend of ours. Of his, really. One on either end, you know. Some Alphas like to share, as it turns out.”

Francis’s mouth is disgusted but his eyes are sorrowful, and Arthur can’t judge him for either because it’s precisely how he feels. Perhaps he should stop—he’s ruining both their moods—but now that the cork is out everything is frothing up and overflowing. “Then he’d bring Alphas home to me in the middle of the night. We were living in an abandoned house, a squat. Everyone there was either a whore or a junkie or both. So no one really cared. I thought I didn’t care, at the time. I thought I was . . .” He heaves a fifty-pound sigh. “Empowered.” His smile is ugly. “But I was just stupid. That’s all.”

They both fall into silence, the words lingering like gunsmoke. Finally, Francis asks, “What happened? To make you get away from it all?”

Arthur turns his face away and says, very thin, “What do you think happened?”

Francis doesn’t say anything.

Arthur doesn’t want to, but he says, “I never found out whose it was. His or any of the others. God knows.”

 _But God doesn’t care._ That’s certain. Perhaps God has forsaken him, for what he did. He wouldn’t blame God for that. Arthur would’ve forsaken himself, if he wasn’t such a coward.

Francis is looking at him with too much sympathy. “I’m so sorry.”

A lump rises in Arthur’s throat. Tears burn the backs of his eyes. He wonders when he started trembling. “Yeah. So am I.”

The French Alpha doesn’t bother speaking. He just offers his arms.

Arthur has never seen something so undemanding in its kindness. Just an offering of support, with nothing needed in return. This is what opens the floodgates and has tears streaming down his cheeks. It’s partly to hide his face from Francis’s view that he crawls over—feeling childish and, at the same time, that basic safety that was so easy to find as a pup—and partly because he can’t bring himself to get up and leave when there’s comfort waiting between those outstretched arms. He curls up beside Francis and snuggles into his chest, burying his face into his shirt. When Francis’s arms wind around him, he breaks, a sob tearing from his throat. _I was so stupid,_ he thinks, or perhaps he says it, over and over again until it makes no sense. It was the same needless violence that marks Francis’s body; there was no need for that life to be ended before it even started. _Just cells,_ he told himself. _Nothing important. Omegas do it all the time._ And it’s not that the fetus was terminated that makes him cry. It’s the fact that it shouldn’t have begun to grow in the first place.

Francis mumbles something, and it takes Arthur a moment to realize what it was: “It was an accident.”

If Arthur can’t forgive himself, he won’t allow someone else to do it. “We weren’t even trying,” he rasps, ragged and ugly. “You think he wasted money on condoms? Or the Pill? He didn’t care about that. Neither did I. We were stupid kids.”

“Then it’s for the best, how things worked out,” Francis says quietly. “It wasn’t a good situation for anyone. It’s good that you got out of it. It was the responsible decision for you to make.”

Arthur pulls back enough to look at him, tears dripping. “You really think that?”

Francis gently touches his chin, catching tears before they can fall. “Oui. I do.”

Arthur closes his eyes and lets his head hang, but Francis’s hand stays there, taking the weight. Arthur’s lips end up against Francis’s thumb, but neither of them move away; instead, Arthur turns his head so he can nuzzle into the base of Francis’s wrist, smelling the now-familiar scent of him, soap and salt and just _Francis_ —who cups his face with his hand, fingertips stroking what hair they can reach. From there, they just flow naturally back together, Arthur’s head on his chest, curled around his arm, Francis’s other arm stroking his back while his own cheek rests against Arthur’s hair.

“Thank you,” Francis murmurs. “For trusting me.”

Fresh tears rush to Arthur’s eyes, but these are different. These aren’t from the empty gash in his heart, but from somewhere else, somewhere whole and warm and relieved. “Thank you,” he whispers, burrowing again into Francis’s shirt. “For holding me.”

It’s so quiet he knows Francis can’t hear him—until he feels the French Alpha’s lips against his hair, words soft and sweet as icing sugar: “You’re welcome.”

* * *

Gilbert hasn’t thought to worry about whether the Omegas will get along until Lovino and Feliciano are walking down the driveway with Antonio. He glances into the back from the passenger seat—Antonio insisted on driving, as per usual when there are Omegas to impress—and finds Matthew waiting with a pleasant, curious smile on his face. He’s told Gilbert little anecdotes about a few Omegas at Iris House, but never referred to anyone as a friend. It occurs to Gilbert now that Matthew must be quite lonely.

Antonio opens the back door for the Italians. Matthew scoots over so they can get in, first Lovino, then Feliciano. Gilbert has a brief thought that he would rather it be the other way around—soft Feliciano next to soft Matthew, with prickly Lovino glaring out the side window—but he pushes it away as the Omegas get acquainted with matching friendly tones, Lovino included. Gilbert gives Antonio a vaguely surprised look, which Antonio shares before shrugging and smiling.

Gilbert hears snatches of the Omegas’ giggly conversation—muffled by the road noise and Antonio’s unshocking choice of pop radio station—but it falls silent when he speaks: “Where are you going?”

Antonio has turned down some obscure road Gilbert’s only been down once, back when he was a rookie sent to tell drunk twenty-year-olds to stop making so much noise. The Spanish Alpha glances at the rearview mirror, even though Gilbert has told him several times it’s for seeing the back _window_ , not the backseat. “All those in favor of taking the backroads say _aye_.”

“Aye,” cries Feliciano immediately, in brighter spirits than Gilbert has seen since this whole process began. Matthew giggles—a sound that will never lose its loveliness—and adds, “Aye.” Only Lovino questions it: “Why are we taking backroads?”

“More scenic, that way,” Antonio replies, with enough enthusiasm that Lovino relents with a _whatever, you’re driving._

Gilbert gives him a sidelong look. “I know what you’re doing.”

Antonio’s eyes widen with innocence, but his grin is all fiend. They pass a speed limit sign which Antonio takes as more of a starting point than a limit, and every corner they take has the Omegas squealing and laughing like lunatics. Antonio joins in, and Gilbert resigns himself to one sigh of disapproval before he’s smiling too. Out the window: blurs of golden-brown grass and clapboard cabins and the last of the crimson leaves clinging valiantly to their skeletons. It’s the sort of day that’s so sunny you think it _must_ be warm until you go outside and your breath makes a sparkling cloud in the air. Crisp and bright, like the inside of an apple, that’s what this day is. Gilbert glances in the rearview mirror and sees Matthew looking back at him, such an easy smile on his face, so very happy. Gilbert’s smile widens into a grin.

When they get out at the rink, the Omegas act out an impromptu skit of pretending to kiss the ground in gratitude for arriving alive—despite all of them evidently being adrenaline junkies—and Gilbert turns to Antonio. “Remind me to give you a speeding ticket when we get home.”

“A speeding—? Me?” Antonio’s pout takes on a layer of flirtation. “Officer, we must be able to come up with some sort of deal.”

“Hey.” Matthew steps between them, taking Gilbert’s hand. “Mine.”

Gilbert reduces a giddy grin to a slightly quivery smile. To Antonio, he says, “You want me, you gotta go through him.”

Antonio holds up his hands, laying the horror on thick. “Oh, please, spare me!” He turns his face to the side, squeezes his eyes shut. “I beg you, have mercy. I’m too handsome too die.”

Matthew pats his shoulder with his free hand. “It’s okay, you’re spared.”

“And you’re making a scene,” Lovino mutters pointedly.

Antonio opens his eyes to look over at the young couple observing them from their car. Then he grins and puts his arms around Lovino and Feliciano, who scowl and smile respectively. “There’s nothing wrong with making a scene if you’re doing something people wanna watch.”

Lovino gives Gilbert a skeptical look, which Gilbert returns gratefully. Then they’re walking inside, surrounding and following Antonio, pulled like planets to the sun.

It’s an indoor rink, so it’s no warmer inside, but it’s a different sort of chill than the air they leave behind. This man-made cold is deeper almost, snaking straight to the bone, and Antonio and Gilbert both wrinkle their noses at the assault of smells: the rubber of the protective mats on the floor, the hot drinks and snacks served from a stall beside the rental booth, and the muffled reek of whatever hockey team last used the locker room.

They rent their skates. Matthew already knows what size he wears, but the rest of them have a bit of trial-and-error, especially Feliciano. “My ankles,” he says, blushing, and Gilbert wonders if this is a safe activity for someone . . . pregnant. (Gilbert still hasn’t said it aloud, or acknowledged it to anyone in person. Antonio told him over text, and he’s just been avoiding the truth and implications of it since. He hasn’t told Matthew, obviously. Sometimes confidentiality is a very good thing.) He seems to remember, though, that his dam stayed active throughout his pregnancy with Ludwig. So it must be alright to do a bit of skating, especially this early on.

As they wobble to the edge of the ice, Gilbert finally feels trepidation. “Well. I guess this is happening now.”

Matthew smiles, once again taking his hand. “You’ll be okay. Let’s just go slow.”

Gilbert lets the Omega lead him onto the ice. As soon as his feet begin to slide, he grabs for the wall, a classic overcompensation that has the pair of them jerking to stay upright until they wind up crushed together, arms wrapped around each other. Matthew bursts out laughing, then slowly extricates himself from Gilbert’s tight grip. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s go _really_ slow.”

Behind them, Antonio smiles fondly before turning to the Italian Omegas. Feliciano looks eager, and Lovino looks vaguely irritated, which Antonio has learned is just his default face. “Have either of you skated before?”

Both brothers nod. “Once, for a field trip,” Lovino says.

“That’s more experience than I have,” Antonio tells him. He gives Feliciano a small, playful nudge; the young Omega is drowning in his shapeless parka. “I’ll try not to fall on you.”

Feliciano smiles, tugs his sleeve. “Come on, we’ll help you.”

Antonio lets himself be led, wondering if Feliciano is relieved to be the one to give assistance instead of the other way around. A startled, possibly selfish part of him suddenly worries Lovino might get jealous. He glances over his shoulder, but the other Omega is following close behind, his expression actually light. Perhaps Lovino isn’t the sort to get jealous. Antonio wonders if he’ll ever be that mature.

He’s pleasantly surprised by how natural it feels to skate. Once he figures out the friction of the blades, the rhythm and the balance come more or less naturally to him. He skates to and fro with the Italians and is beyond pleased to discover that, like most things in life, it’s better if you go faster. He turns around messily and grins at the thrill of not-quite-falling. “Not so hard, huh?” he calls, a bit breathless.

Gilbert is still lock-kneed beside Matthew. “Shut up, Toni, I’m concentrating.”

“He’s gonna melt the ice if he keeps glaring at it like that,” Antonio remarks, making Lovino snort. Lovino is slower going than Feliciano, lagging behind when Antonio proposes a lap of the rink. “I’ll catch up.” So Antonio and Feliciano twine elbows and weave their way between other skaters.

“Loosen up,” Antonio advises upon returning to Gilbert and Matthew. “You’re too stiff.”

Before Gilbert can bare his teeth, Matthew says, “He’s trying his best,” which softens all of them. Antonio can definitely see the appeal of Omegas like this. Like a cozy fleece blanket. He’s not sure what that makes Lovino. An electric blanket, perhaps, that might zap you when you plug it in—but still always keep you warm at night.

“Uh oh, Lovi,” Feliciano says, eyes wide. Antonio follows his gaze and hurries toward Lovino, who has tried to speed over to them and nearly succeeds in falling flat on his back. Antonio grabs him by the flailing arms just in time, hauling him upright and steadying him with a gentler hold round his waist.

“Okay?” he asks, and Lovino scowls, but doesn’t protest the touches.

It’s not long before Matthew, Feliciano, and Antonio are literally skating circles around each other. Antonio twirls Feliciano, then Matthew, but when he tries to twirl Lovino the Omega nearly falls again. “I’m too clumsy for this,” Lovino grumbles. “I’m staying with Gilbert.”

The German Alpha having since given up to stand on the sidelines and observe. He looks surprised, and Antonio’s not sure if it’s because of the admission of defeat or of the natural way he says Gilbert’s name. _Making friends,_ Antonio thinks happily.

“I can watch them,” he hears abruptly, and turns around to see Feliciano addressing an older Omega. He has two little pups, both in purple snowsuits and pink plastic skates. “You really don’t mind?” the Omega asks, uncertain. When Feliciano assures him it’s no trouble, the Omega skates off and disappears into the restroom. Feliciano holds his hands out to the pups and effortlessly holds them up when they stumble.

It makes Antonio both happy and sad to watch it, but now isn’t the time to dissect such complicated emotions. So he offers a hand to Matthew. “Shall we?”

Matthew smiles and twines his pale fingers with bronze ones. “We shall.”

Gilbert watches his best friend skate gracefully with his Omega. “I’d like to find something he’s not good at.”

Lovino crosses his arms over his chest. “Organization. Have you seen the state of his desk drawers?”

“I have.” He almost points out that he’s seen the mess of Lovino’s half of the brothers’ shared bedroom, but it seems inappropriate to mention it lightly given the context of his only visit. “He’s not good at following rules, I guess.”

Lovino looks at him rather sharply, but he doesn’t speak. They both watch Feliciano with those pups. Gilbert wants to ask about the future of Feliciano’s baby, but he also doesn’t want to know, and he has a strong feeling it’s none of his business. Lovino might not even know his brother’s wishes, anyway. _No need bringing up depressing topics._

“I’m pretty eager to get these off,” Gilbert says when the silence starts standing a little too close. “What about you?”

Once Lovino realizes he’s talking about the skates, he nods. “Yeah, let’s do that.” He raises his voice. “We’ll be back, Feli.”

Feliciano looks up as if he’d forgotten where he was. “Oh. Okay.”

Gilbert and Lovino unlace and relieve their feet of their tight prisons. When they have their shoes back on, Gilbert asks, “Did you want some cider?”

Lovino arches an eyebrow. “Are you offering to buy me a drink?”

Gilbert freezes, unsure of what they’re talking about. Is he asking that in an equalist way, or accusing him of having ulterior motives, or just calling him cliche?

Lovino must see his terror, because he shakes his head and pats his shoulder, a parody of the reassuring gesture Matthew gave Antonio an hour ago. “Yes, you can get me cider, old man.”

 _Toni’s only two years younger than me,_ he wants to protest, but Lovino is already striding off toward the food stall. Gilbert follows after him, unzipping his coat to retrieve his wallet from an inner pocket. They get hot cider for themselves and cocoa for the others. They relocate to one of the lower seats on the stands so they can watch the skaters and sip from deliciously warm paper cups.

“It’s nice,” Gilbert says, setting the tray of cups between them both to protect it and to establish a respectful boundary, “to see them so happy.”

Lovino’s sidelong look appears oddly gloomy—more so than usual, that is. “Yeah.”

Gilbert regards him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Lovino says again, then glances up at him. “Don’t you have an Omega to worry about already?”

“Oh,” Gilbert says, putting his hands into his pockets, “you can never have too many things to worry about.” He stretches his legs out; he’ll probably feel this tomorrow. “That’s what big brothers do, right?”

At last, Lovino gives half a smile. “Yeah,” he says for a third time, but with pride instead of flatness. “I guess so.”

* * *

By the time they get to Iris House, Lovino is the only Omega still awake. He gently nudges Matthew, who gives a questioning little squeak as he lifts his head and blinks blearily, and Gilbert can only imagine him doing it in his bed when he’s woken by Gilbert getting ready for work. _Go back to sleep,_ he’ll whisper. _I’ll see you at lunchtime._ Then maybe a kiss to his sleep-mussed curls before he closes the bedroom door—but not all the way, because he knows Matthew likes to have a sliver of golden light peeking through into the bedroom.

 _Two months._ Matthew declines the offer to be walked to the door, so Gilbert just twists around to give his hand a little squeeze and bid him farewell. Matthew waves to the Vargases and Antonio—who all return it, Antonio with the most vigor—and thanks them all for the lovely afternoon. Gilbert doesn’t have to request it; Antonio waits until Matthew is safely inside before turning around and driving out of the gated lot.

There’s no offer when they get to the parsonage. Antonio gets out and again opens the back door for Lovino— _and you call me old-fashioned,_ Gilbert thinks—and escorts both Omegas up the stone path. Roma’s out before they get even halfway, swarming Feliciano and inspecting him for God-knows-what. Roma casts a look at Antonio that Gilbert’s glad he’s not on the receiving end of.

“I’m fine, Grampa,” Feliciano says again. “It was just skating.”

“You said you’d be back twenty minutes ago,” Roma snaps, but it’s directed at Antonio.

Who tries his best apologetic smile. “It’s because we took the backroads. I’m sorry, Reverend, we should have told you we’d be a little longer. I didn’t even think of it.”

Roma appraises Antonio silently, then puts an arm around Feliciano. “Come inside. It’s too cold for you out here.” He glances over his shoulder at Lovino, but when the Omega remains at Antonio’s side, he just shakes his head a little and closes the door behind them.

Antonio and Lovino linger on the front step. Hazel eyes search Antonio’s face, at once hoping and mocking. “Do I get a kiss?”

Antonio’s eyebrows spike toward his hair. “Do you want one?”

Lovino rolls his eyes. Antonio sneak-attacks a peck to his cheek. Lovino’s eyes spark, his cheeks already getting red. “No. Do it like you mean it.”

So Antonio cups his face and kisses him, full on those gorgeous lips. He keeps waiting for Lovino to pull back, but he doesn’t, and every second his blush grows darker his scent grows stronger, and now Lovino is leaning back against the door and drawing Antonio against him, and their _hips are touching_ and this cannot be allowed to happen in front of a reverend’s home.

Finally, Lovino pushes his shoulder—gently enough that Antonio doesn’t even realize it’s a push at first—and they pull apart, panting. Lovino stares up at him with wide, almost bleary eyes. “Wow.” His voice comes out thick, and he clears his throat and pats Antonio’s chest. “That’s more like it.”

Antonio grins. It feels like some of Lovino’s fire passed between their lips; flames lick Antonio’s heart. He can still taste him. “See you tomorrow.”

Lovino nods, fumbling the doorknob for a moment before he at last turns it and steps into the hall. “Yep. See you.” And the door closes quickly, but not quickly enough that Antonio can’t hear the whispered _Holy shit._

Antonio is in the middle of fighting the urge to pump his fist in victory when the car horn honks and he nearly jumps out of his skin. When he gets back in the car, Gilbert can barely get the words out through his laughter: “I was worried you’d step back and he’d have no face left.”

Antonio smirks. “You’re just jealous.”

Gilbert pauses, then nods. “I will admit that was a little bit of revenge for you skating with Matt.”

Antonio punches his arm, and Gilbert punches him back. Both of them laugh, and smile, and ignore the fact that there’s no one telling them to get a room from the backseat.

* * *

“You can’t use that,” Arthur protests. “Alors isn’t a word.”

“Yes it is,” Francis says, shifting carefully to avoid displacing the board on his legs. “It’s French. And the _S_ is silent.”

“Make all of it silent and take it off the board. No French allowed in Scrabble _._ ”

“You were fine with French words when you made _cliche_ and got triple points.”

“Kids,” Alfred says, words muffled by his mouthful of noodles.

“Slurp those bloody things into your mouth before you speak,” Arthur snaps. “Don’t try to high-ground us when you’re choking on chow mein.”

Alfred agreebly obeys and washes it down with some soda for extra credit. “Fran, you’re using the _O_ , so just put the _S_ next to it and make _so._ Then the ScrabblePolice will be happy.”

Francis’s smile has a touch of irony to it, but not enough to prompt inquiry. Alfred plucks the last of the noodles from his carton and sets it beside Francis and Arthur’s on the crowded nightstand. Alfred assumed correctly that Arthur was losing his mind from having to scrounge together some semblance of three meals a day, so tonight he crashed the party with Chinese takeout. He’s pleasantly surprised to see Arthur comfortably sitting on the bed with them, one leg folded beneath him, the other hanging over the side. It’s a bit of a squeeze with all three of them and the game board, but they make it work. He can also tell that Arthur’s been crying today—his eyelids are a little puffy—but he doesn’t bring it up. He takes the fact that Francis didn’t text him for advice as a mark of progress.

Alfred’s not entirely selfless, of course. Mostly selfish, in his opinion. He’s glad to nudge Arthur and Francis together, but his motivation isn’t only to make the pair happy—his own life will be easier if he doesn’t have to tear a rabid wolverine off his arm every time Arthur’s in a bad mood. Someone else to help batten down the hatches when the hurricane blows through town, that’s what Francis can be.

But at the same time, it’s sad. He sees the growing warmth between Francis and Arthur and can’t help but think _I wish I had that._ He almost kicks himself for not accepting Arthur’s offer years ago. He doesn’t want that, has known he doesn’t want it for a long time, and yet when he sees it being taken . . . He gives himself a mental slap. Alpha instincts, that must be it. He can’t think of any other reason for the jealousy. _God._ They creep up when you least expect it.

The sadness, though, he thinks is normal. What single guy wouldn’t look at a blossoming relationship and not get a little glum? He knows he’s not doing himself any favors spending so much time in that little down and this city—which is by no means large itself. He’s already had flings with all the gay Alphas he knows in the city, and none of them had the right chemistry with him to last. The odds are against him as well, being a rather big Alpha who’s more interested in spreading than mounting. He’s not big and hairy or small and delicate. He’s not even chubby enough to get the chasers interested, which is his secret back-up plan if he can’t win anyone with a charming personality.

“Jones.” Arthur waves a hand in front of his face. “It’s your turn.”

“Oh.” He regards his tray of letters, studies the board. It’s getting too full to do anything with; he shouldn’t be surprised that playing a word game with two lawyers is a bad idea. There are no letters left in the pile to switch his out with, so he just flaps a hand. “I’m beat. Your turn, Bonbon.”

Francis chuckles. “I like that one.”

“Fuck,” Arthur says suddenly, under his breath. Alfred and Francis both watch him get up, start for the door, then turn back and grab the trio of cartons.

“What’s up?” Alfred asks.

“Nothing. Just—forgot to take a pill,” Arthur mutters, hurrying to the kitchen.

Alfred glances at Francis. “Heart pill or Pill pill?”

Francis shrugs. “Both, maybe.” He makes two words at once and adds his score to the notepad.

Alfred glances at the doorway, then lowers his voice. “Everything alright today?”

Francis gives him a knowing, pensive look. “Yes, I think so. Healing takes time.”

“You’re right about that.”

Upon return, Arthur says, “I can’t believe I ended up unhealthier than you, Jones.”

“Hey,” Alfred says, without heat. “I spend an hour on a treadmill before I go to bed.”

(Walking while he plays video games, usually, but an hour nonetheless.)

“Arthur exercises before bed, too,” Francis teases. “But it doesn’t take an hour.”

“Settle down.” Arthur says, making both Alphas snicker. “You’d be surprised how much stamina I have.” He twirls his last remaining letter around in his fingers, scanning the board, then places it down. “Alright, now you can grovel.”

Alfred gives him an exaggerated bow, lying over the board and sending all the letters sliding into his lap. Francis doesn’t bother trying, just says, “I’m grovelling in spirit.”

“Lucky for you, I accept spiritual grovelling.” Arthur pings Alfred’s cowlick. “Rise, peasant. Clean up your mess.”

Alfred sits up straight and starts shoveling letters into the bag Francis holds open. He shakes his head, aghast. “You get a guy noodles, and he still makes you do all the work.”

“That’s right.” Arthur crosses his ankles on the edge of the nightstand. “Omegas win and Alphas do the work. That’s equal.”

Alfred exchanges a glance with Francis. Then they both attack him, fingers tickling his sides and feet. Arthur bucks like he’s being electrocuted and drops from his perch on the edge of the bed, which sends all three of them into hilarity. “Fuck you both,” Arthur says, clawing his way back up and throwing a W tile at Alfred. Alfred responds in kind with a handful of letters, and soon the bed is a battlefield of strewn projectiles and laughing bodies, with broken words scattered all around like the things they’ve left unsaid.

 _Everything’s steadier,_ Alfred thinks, _when it has a third wheel._


	12. Bearer of Bad News

Gilbert already knows the news before he brings it to Antonio. The lab technician talked him through the details, such as they are, after their usual bit of small talk. _Keep doing your job, Detective. Yeah, you too._ Those who work in the SVU never say _see you later_ to each other, because the best case scenario would be that they never have to meet again. It’s that sober mood he carries on the ride to the DA office. He’s not sure if this dread is worse or better than it would be if he didn’t know the results. There would be hope mixed in with the apprehension, if he didn’t know—but that’s even worse. Pain is made even more brutal if there’s an element of happiness to it, as well. It’s the contrast that kills.

Antonio must know as soon as he sees the look on Gilbert’s face. He sits back in his chair and says, “The kit?”

Gilbert nods, offering the envelope. Antonio takes it, opens it with a clean slice of an opener, and fans the papers out across his desk like an oversize deck of cards. Gilbert doesn’t look at them, because he already knows: they say Feliciano showed no physical signs of assault, no bruises, no saliva, no semen, no blood. Nothing. He was perfectly clean. _Just like the underwear,_ Gilbert thinks. Not a charitable thought, but a factual one.

Antonio is silent for so long Gilbert starts to prompt him, but the Spanish Alpha looks up before the sound can even breach Gilbert’s throat: “This doesn’t mean anything.”

“Not necessarily,” Gilbert allows, without realizing the words can also be taken in a combative way. There’s no time to find a better phrasing.

Antonio stands up, eyes narrowed. “Don’t take his side.”

“I’m not taking sides.” Gilbert wants to shake his head, but he doesn’t dare. “You don’t have to get defensive.”

Spanish shoulders stiffen. “It’s my job to be defensive.”

“No, it’s your job to prosecute.” Gilbert recalls snapping at Antonio for telling him how to do his job, but once again the words are already out and there’s no retrieving them. “The only reason you’d have to be defensive is if your client is . . .”

They both hear the unspoken— _lying_ —and drop their gazes to the papers for a moment. Gilbert thinks Antonio might actually give him a break and admit that Lovino and Feliciano are, at best, suspicious. But then Antonio lifts a dark, weary gaze and says, “I can’t have this conversation right now. If I don’t believe this crime happened, then why would anyone else? I’m morally and professionally obligated to trust my client.”

“And your client is obligated to tell you the truth,” Gilbert points out, tone lightening at the exhaustion in his friend’s voice. “And people are obligated not to exceed the speed limit, but they still do that every day.”

Antonio stares at him, then half-turns, tipping his head back and covering his face with his hands. “I don’t need this, Gil. I seriously don’t need this.”

Gilbert wants to comfort him somehow, but the arm-around-shoulders that would’ve felt natural a month ago now feels like crossing a boundary. Even stepping around to the other side of Antonio’s desk seems intrusive. So he stays where he stands and says, “This could be a sign, Toni.”

“Or it’s not,” Antonio snaps, whirling on him with fresh fire flashing in his eyes, “and you’re defending a rapist.”

They glare into each other’s eyes. It’s the strongest challenge either has given, and it chills Gilbert how his instincts are so clear about their instructions— _dominate, claim the space, punish for impudence_ —with no acknowledgement that this is one of his best friends.

With herculean self-control, Gilbert steps backward and breaks eye contact. “We’re not going to come to any conclusion fighting about this.”

Antonio looks away, too. “No.” His tone is flat now. “I guess we’re not.”

Gilbert glances at him, but Antonio is deeply invested in the wall. So he turns around and says, “I gotta go.” He can’t say any of the other sharper and sadder things on his tongue. “See you later.”

He lingers in the threshold, but all he gets is an absent echo of _later_ before the door closes behind him.

* * *

Even if he mostly enjoyed the days spent with Francis in the flat, Arthur is glad to be back at the office. He just doesn’t feel productive if he’s not sitting in an expensive leather chair wearing an expensive grey suit. And it’s quite nice to see Francis at last able to stand up long enough to take a shower, walk around in a gait livelier than a pained shuffle, and dress himself in something more fashionable than casual jeans and T-shirt. Not that there’s anything wrong with those, but the multiple layers he’s wearing and his jawline against the silky scarf round his neck, and tiny barely-there snowflakes catching in his golden waves of hair . . . anyway, it’s nice to see.

Arthur is just greeting his secretary when Mikkel walks in. The usual loud footsteps are precluded by both Lukas and Emil looking up, then quickly back down to their work. Arthur and Francis watch Mikkel stride over to his mate’s desk and ask, “What’s my schedule look like today?”

It’s the same sort of question he asks every morning, if a bit formal compared to his usual flirtatious chatter. The difference comes with Lukas coldly handing him a piece of paper with nothing more than a list of appointments and times on it. Lukas doesn’t even look away from his computer screen. Mikkel stares at the paper, then at his mate, and Arthur sees his eyes go dark as he snatches the paper and storms away to his office.

Arthur glances at Francis, who has concern crinkling his brow as he edges closer to Lukas’s desk. “Is everything alright?”

The Norwegian Omega looks up, eyes narrowed slightly in confusion as he searches Francis for mockery. Finding none, he just replies, “It’s fine. Thank you,” and goes straight back to typing. Francis glances at Arthur, expression clear: _What can we do?_

The answer to that is best expressed as _bugger all_ , but Arthur doesn’t like swearing in front of the secretaries. It feels more inappropriate somehow, like swearing in front of a teacher. (Not that Arthur didn’t swear at nuns, several times. So perhaps it’s more like swearing in front of his barber. Good work is done, there’s no need to curse.)

Arthur turns to Emil, whose eyes are bright with poorly hidden anxiety. Arthur can only empathize with that; he’s got his own hidden—and not so hidden, at  least in food courts—stress to deal with. “Any calls?”

“No.” Emil opens a drawer in his desk and holds up a manila envelope. “But Mr. Carriedo sent this.”

Arthur accepts the offering. “Thank you.” He must still be half-asleep, because it takes him a few seconds to realize with a jolt of excitement—the rape kit! Antonio said he was going to call when it came in, though, but if he’s getting the whole damn thing . . . that is very good news. He smiles at Emil and says again, warmly, “Thank you.”

Emil smiles too, a bit hesitant. “You’re welcome, Mr. Kirkland.”

Arthur can’t stick around for small talk. With the glee of a pup on Christmas morning, he dashes up to his office with Francis following as best he can. Arthur breaks the seal with four messy rips across the top and dumps the contents onto his desk. On top is a pair of DNA reports, one for Francis’s coat and another for a scrap of underwear.

“What’s that?” Francis asks, a bit breathless as he steps over.

Arthur hands him the documents. Francis scans them with surprising swiftness— _lawyer,_ he reminds himself—and looks up, scandalized. “In my _pocket_?”

“Apparently so,” Arthur agrees. _Inner pocket,_ he thinks. _Interesting choice, Vargases._

“I never—”

Arthur holds up his free hand, eyes dancing over the kit documents. “You’re preaching to the choir, Francis.” In silence, he takes the time to actually read it, stamping down his giddiness so he can make sense of the words. When he’s sure of what he sees, he looks up. “Well. Looks like the bullfighter has his work cut out for him.”

Francis just waits, watching him with an expression barely daring to hold hope.

Arthur sits in his chair, crosses his legs, and smirks. “No trace of you whatsoever. No trace of anything at all.”

His client’s eyes widen and he hurries over to see it for himself. He reads the lines Arthur points to—Francis has only seen one rape kit before after all—and he’s so relieved he leans over the back of Arthur’s chair to hug him from behind. Effectively pinned to his chair, Arthur protests, “What are you doing?”

Francis rests his cheek on top of Arthur’s head. His response comes on a sigh: “The biggest part of my nightmare is over.”

Arthur lets the embrace go on a few moments longer, then takes Francis’s hands in his own. He has every intention of flinging them away, but he can’t believe how soft they are. He has the larger knuckles of an Alpha, and long thumbs, but his fingers are thin and deft, not thick and calloused like Mikkel’s or Gilbert’s or Ivan’s. Arthur can’t see a single scar or blemish on them—compared to his own, which have scars from being shut into doors and nicked by knives, and of course the rough patches over his knuckles from the cold air, and a scattering of freckles on top of all that. He remembers, just then, that one of his brothers used to tell him he had ugly, stubby hands. They’ve lost the puppy fat since then; surely his fingers are longer? His nails are just little rounded things, and Francis’s are long elegant ovals. _Why is every part of him so perfect?_

“What are you doing?” Francis asks, a gentle—and, God, _fond_ —repetition of Arthur’s query.

Arthur pushes the perfect hands away from him. “Go have a sweet dream on the couch while I write something to make Carriedo cry Spanish tears.”

“Thank you,” Francis says as he lowers himself down onto the sofa.

Arthur glances at him. The good news of the rape kit isn’t his doing. “For what?”

Francis smiles, so soft Arthur knows he should look away but he doesn’t. “For doing your job.”

Arthur feels happy, _joyful_ warmth spreading outward from his heart. Slowly, waiting for the feeling of surrender that doesn’t come, he lets it curl his lips into a smile. “You’re welcome.”

* * *

Antonio knocks three times before someone answers the door of the parsonage. Feliciano smiles up at him, cheeks pinked as if by exercise. “Hi!” he says cheerfully. “We’re cleaning out the attic. I asked Grampa for something to do so we’re on attic duty.”

Antonio marvels at that for a moment. _I hope you don’t end up with a deadbeat, Feli._ “I wanted to talk you and your brother—”

“He’s upstairs! This way.” Feliciano turns and walks away without another word, leaving Antonio to toe off his shoes and follow him to a fold-down staircase in the middle of the upstairs hall. He has to duck immediately at the top, such is the slope of the ceiling. The Omegas, of course, have no such problem.

The parsonage in general smells of sweet things, pastries and candles, but the attic smells mostly like dust and that musty-paper scent of old library books. The space is smaller than Antonio’s office, which is saying something, and is crammed to the brim with cardboard boxes, which Antonio suspects it the source of the musty smell. Feliciano returns to a stack of old photo albums, holding up one of himself at a petting zoo for Antonio to smile at, and Lovino glances over from dumping newspapers into a recycling bag. Lovino has the same rosy cheeks, and a shirt loose enough that it hangs low enough to bare one shoulder. Antonio can only imagine the heaven that burying his face in that crook of mocha skin would be.

“Did you come to talk or gawk?” Lovino asks, one eyebrow arched.

Antonio’s eyes flash to his face. “Talk. To Feliciano, first.” He glances at the younger Omega, adding the word that was cut off before: “Privately.”

He’s not sure if it’s the adverb or the use of a five-syllable name or just the serious tone he’s saying them with, but Lovino and Feliciano both look at him with worry plain on their faces. Lovino’s, however, quickly corrects to agitation. “Whatever you say to him you can say to me.”

Antonio glances at Feliciano, because if that’s true Feliciano is waiving his client-attorney privilege. “It’s your choice to make.”

Feliciano nods, a bit of fear widening his eyes.

“The rape kit results came back.” Antonio takes a deep breath. “They show no DNA from Francis at all.”

Feliciano looks absolutely horrified.

Lovino steps in front of him, snarling, “You said you believed us!”

He’s not made of stone; the betrayal on their faces is a blade through his heart. “I do believe you. But this shines an innocent light on Francis. That makes it a lot harder to prove he’s guilty.”

Lovino throws up his hands. “What do you want Feli to do? Get raped all over again?”

Feliciano bursts into tears, grasping his brother’s arm. “Please, Lovi. Stop.”

The Omegas embrace, crushed against each other. Antonio can hear Feliciano’s miserable whisper: “Please stop.” Lovino doesn’t say anything back, just keeps one arm tight around his brother and turns to glare at Antonio. “Is that all you came here to say?”

If Antonio didn’t feel like shit before, he definitely does now. All of the doubts he wanted to raise now crumble beneath the pain of these poor Omegas. How can he not trust his own client? And how can he stand here saying these things to him, after all this has happened? There are fresh tears trickling down a young Omega’s face because Antonio let the results of an exam—and his friend’s words—skew his perspective. Tests can never be fully relied upon. _They’re not the word of God._

“I’m sorry,” he says, letting his inner turmoil and exhaustion show through.

The fire is doused from Lovino’s eyes as swiftly as it was lit, replaced by simmering coals of sorrow. In a low tone, the sort where you can hear the air hissing across the cavern of the throat, Lovino says, “I think you should leave.”

A part of Antonio wants to insist on staying, saying his piece, justifying himself with pressure and arguments with Gilbert and worries of how the jury will view Feliciano’s story—but most of him just wants to go back to bed for two hours. He has paperwork to do, though, so he turns to go.

“You don’t have to,” Feliciano says, a whimper lining the edge of his words.

“No, I have work I need to do.” Antonio starts toward the fold-down stairs, then turns back to say, “I’ll be around soon to practise testimony with both of you. If Kirkland comes around again, don’t answer any of his questions. Understand?”

Both Omegas nod, Feliciano’s eyes pale, Lovino’s dark.

Antonio returns the nod grimly, turns, knocks his head against the sloped ceiling, and retreats down the stairs with his tail shamefully between his legs.

* * *

After nine hours of furious typing and discussing the best wording and debating which questions should be struck or kept and only stopping when Francis’s pouting for lunch or brain breaks gets intolerable, Arthur is quite ready to go home. He closes his laptop and rubs his eyes, reclining his chair a bit.

“Do you ever wish you could teleport home at the end of the day?” Francis sets down the list of witness questions he’d been proofing. “So you don’t have to drive?”

Arthur drops his hands to his lap, incredulous. “Your commute is five minutes.”

“Ten,” Francis corrects, offended.

“The poor suffering diddums,” Arthur coos, and smirks when Francis wrinkles his nose. “The walking to the car seems more of a hassle than the driving, right now.”

“You’re not implying I should carry you,” Francis says, with a brow quirked in flirtatious disbelief.

“You couldn’t lift me even without your ribs falling out,” Arthur retorts, though he’s not quite sure about that. Francis isn’t bulging with brute strength, but he was a lot less wobbly than Arthur was when they had to hold themselves up with one arm or leg.

“My ribs are—”

Francis’s protest is cut off by the door abruptly opening, no knock to speak of, and Mikkel leaning into the office. His gaze finds Arthur instantly, with a peculiar intensity that has Arthur foolishly feeling like he’s in trouble. “A word,” Mikkel says, and the brevity sticks out like a sore thumb. “My office.” Then he’s gone.

Arthur and Francis exchange a bemused look.

“I’ll stay here,” Francis says, but there’s an unspoken _unless you want me to come._

“I doubt I’ll be very long,” Arthur replies, standing and stepping out before Francis can offer any actual assistance. He’s not afraid of his boss, by any means. And what image would it send, to have his client piggybacking down the hall, waiting outside the door for Arthur to finish talking to the grown-up, like a parent picking up a child from school?

 _Perhaps this is about the partnership._ The committee won’t have made their announcement until the end of the year, when all the bonuses come out. But perhaps the decision has already gone through? He’s not privy to what happens behind closed doors. An excited flutter in his chest. _Not yet._

Mikkel’s office is twice the size of Arthur’s and has room enough for three couches arranged in a square around a glass coffee table. There’s quite a bit of glass in here, actually: glass table, glass vases, glass sculptures of wolves and bears. All of it is done in the shades of the ocean, deep blues and cold greys. Undeniably masculine, but Arthur suspects Lukas had some input on the interior design.

Mikkel is standing at his desk, pouring two lowball glasses of whiskey. “Have a seat.”

Arthur obeys, sliding downward a little in the big leather chair opposite Mikkel’s desk.

The Danish Alpha pauses, raising an eyebrow at him.

Quickly, Arthur sits up straight and takes the near glass, sipping it as smoothly as possible. Mikkel sits on the edge of his desk rather than his chair, swirling his drink so the ice jingles against the glass. His legs are long enough that they’d easily frame Arthur’s if he stretched them out. Arthur keeps waiting for this to feel real, instead of like a dream where everything is too big for him and only his toes can touch the floor.

“So.” Mikkel’s voice is still that strange, humorless tone. Arthur isn’t used to seeing him without a confident grin on that big mouth or an arrogant glint in his eyes. “How’s the case going?”

“It’s looking up,” Arthur replies, moving his glass from his lap to the arm of his chair because it seems more Alpha that way. “No evidence pointing to Bonnefoy in the kit.”

“Good to hear.” Mikkel sips his drink. Arthur watches his throat move. “But I’m sure you’d be able to put something together even if he was incriminated.”

Arthur can’t decide where to look. His neck, his hands, his chest, his legs—all of it is risky. For once, he’s reluctant to truly meet his boss’s gaze; he doesn’t know what he’ll find there. “I appreciate your faith in me, Mr. Densen.”

“A partner needs to be able to do that.” Mikkel drains the rest of his whiskey. “You have to make something from nothing and win.”

“Well.” The one sip he had is burning rather pleasantly in his stomach, but for some reason Arthur isn’t tempted to have more. “Nothing is a guarantee.”

Mikkel sets down his glass and stands up, looming over him. “It is when you only take cases you know you can win.”

Arthur starts to get the sinking feeling that their topic of conversation has shifted. He stands, too, setting his glass down on the desk. He keeps his tone light. “I really shouldn’t be drinking, I’d rather drive than let Bonnefoy do it.”

He turns, and Mikkel is standing in front of him, blocking his path to the door. Now Mikkel has a faint smirk, but Arthur isn’t glad to see it. How can eyes smolder when they’re so pale?

“You’re independent, right?” Mikkel asks, a distinct rumble to his voice that awakens a shiver in the small of Arthur’s back. “You like doing things your own way.”

“Whenever possible,” Arthur agrees, edging around him. “Now I really must—”

Mikkel’s hand lifts, and for one frozen second Arthur feels genuine fear, and then it cups Arthur’s jaw. It’s a foreign touch, those large, calloused fingers, but it’s not unpleasant. In fact, it’s one Arthur has imagined many times. But he’s never seriously considered it. This isn’t how an Omega, or anyone, should accomplish things in the workplace. _Wrong,_ his mind tells him. _Wrong?_ his instincts lament. He steps backward but he’s met with the desk. Mikkel follows after him, leaning down to sniff at his hair; Arthur feels the whuff of his breath, smells the whiskey laced in it.

“I can still smell you under that cologne,” Mikkel tells him. “I know what you want.”

With that raspy rumble, Arthur feels his legs and his resolve weaken to nil.

* * *

After five minutes, Francis is pacing. He didn’t like the scent of alcohol that drifted over to him when Mikkel opened the door, and most of the other lawyers and secretaries have gone home now; what if Arthur is in trouble, who could hear him? He didn’t like the look of Densen, either. That might be generalizing the cocky jock Alpha, but he doesn’t care. He does one last lap of the room, then heads for Densen’s office.

The door is closed, so he knocks. There’s no _come in_ or _just a minute_ or even _who is it._ There’s nothing at all. Loudly, he asks, “Are you alright, Arthur?”

When there’s still no response, he pushes the door open.

Densen is touching Arthur’s face. They aren’t touching other than that, but their eyes are meeting, holding each other in a stasis of tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Francis can smell them: whiskey and lust and a very real dash of fear.

“What the hell is this?” Francis demands, lips pulling back from his teeth.

In the moment of distraction, Arthur slips round Densen and hurries to Francis’s side. Francis hates everything about it, from the timid scurry to the blush rising up his neck. “I should be getting home, sir.”

Densen glances between Francis and Arthur. His shoulders start out squared, his teeth flashing, but after a moment he deflates. “Yeah.” He looks away, drained. “Me too.”

Francis stays close beside Arthur on the way to the car. He can’t get the furious jealousy out of his mind. There’s no breaking this negative feeling down to find the source, because it’s a self-feeding machine. He’s angry because of Densen trying to take Arthur from him, and Arthur isn’t his to take. _Friends. Flatmates. Client and attorney._ That’s what they are. If Arthur wants to be adulterous with his employer, that’s his own prerogative. But—God. He’s never wanted to punch a wall before, but it sounds pretty good right about now.

They don’t speak, in the car. They sit in silence and cold. Densen’s cursed scent is clinging to Arthur, Francis can smell it. If Arthur wanted that, why would there be fear-scent in the office? And Densen had been drinking, but Francis doesn’t think he was drunk. Not drunk enough to forgive frightening an Omega, surely.

_Look who’s talking._

Out of nowhere, Arthur murmurs, “Thank you.”

“No one should be pressured into that,” Francis says. He clears his throat. It still has unused growl lingering in there.

“No. You don’t understand.” Arthur glances at him, face haunting in the headlights of the cars on the other side of the road. “I wouldn’t have stopped him. So thank you.”

Francis does understand, now, and all he says is “You’re welcome.”

* * *

Gilbert stands at the window, arms crossed over his chest. There’s no sign of yesterday’s flurries; they didn’t amount to anything. He’s glad about it pedantically, but Matthew gives him a youthful glee-by-proxy at the idea of fluffy snow drifts. “You don’t have to do this,” he says again, addressing the Omega sitting on the sofa behind him. This isn’t the first time Matthew has been to his house, but it’s still exciting to find him in the kitchen or pass him in the hall.

“I know,” Matthew replies. “I want to talk to him.”

Gilbert doesn’t really want to. Arthur called him an hour ago, asking if he could have a chat with Matthew about him potentially testifying. Gilbert was displeased to say the least, but when he asked Matthew about it he was surprised to see the Omega’s expression gain thoughtful determination: _Tell him I said yes, I want to talk to him._ Gilbert relayed the message, reluctantly, and after he’d hung up Matthew told him he’s spent plenty of time thinking about what he would say to Arthur after what happened. _I want closure, that’s all._ Gilbert can understand that, he’s just wary of Arthur ignoring the scar in favor of opening a brand new wound.

Here comes the car up the driveway. Gilbert will never be able to look at that car without seeing a slur on the windshield. He hasn’t told Matthew about that, for obvious reasons. The last thing the Omega needs is to worry about someone vandalizing his car. Not that he has a car. _Yet._ It’s good to see Francis walking again, at least. The bruising around his eye is mostly gone now; he hopes Matthew won’t ask about it, so he won’t have to tell him about the attack. Matthew knows better than most how little convincing Braginski takes to hurt someone.

“You don’t have to talk to Francis,” Gilbert says, turning to face Matthew. He wants this as easy on him as possible.

Matthew smiles patiently. “Don’t worry, Gil,” he says, voice gentle as always. “I can handle it.” A teasing twinkle in his eyes. “I’m not supposed to underestimate myself, right?”

Gilbert returns the smile just as there’s a knock on the door. He goes out to answer it. Francis hasn’t been here since they watched a marathon of football games, which to be fair was more for Gilbert and Antonio while Francis provided a steady supply of drinks and nibbles. Arthur has never been here, obviously, but Gilbert is distracted from how odd he looks standing on his front step by how odd he _smells._ He doesn’t match the scent Gilbert’s mind associates with Arthur Kirkland. He has no idea what it is, and then he realizes all at once: Arthur isn’t wearing cologne. Contrary to some theories that float around the police department, he does not have some sickly or foul scent underneath. He just smells faintly sweet, like any other Omega.

“Are you going to ask us in?” he asks, one eyebrow raised.

Gilbert steps aside. Arthur and Francis follow him into the living room, where Francis nods respectfully to Matthew. The young Omega gives a tiny wave, more awkward than anything. _Not scared,_ Gilbert notes with relief.

“Would you rather do this privately?” Arthur asks, of course implying that he himself would prefer that. Gilbert narrows his eyes at the snake—it was a lot easier to work on forgiving him when he wasn’t trying to drag Matthew back into this nightmarish process—but Matthew stands willingly.

“Yes, let’s go upstairs,” he says, then glances at Gilbert for belated permission. Gilbert nods to him, then flashes Arthur a warning glance. Arthur makes an expression that Gilbert thinks is mocking reassurance, but the former cancels out the latter in his opinion. He watches Arthur and Matthew walk out of the room, notices the space Arthur maintains between himself and the other Omega. Respectful distance? Gilbert likes to see it, regardless. He doesn’t want any touch forced on Matthew, even harmless ones.

He glances at Francis and is surprised to see a fond yet protective look on his face as he looks toward where the Omegas disappeared. “You want a drink?” he asks. He wouldn’t have had to offer before, but it feels necessary after the distance put between them.

“Sure,” Francis agrees, and they ignore the abundant beer in favor of some orange juice because it is barely noon. They relocate to the sofa, Francis crossing his legs, Gilbert not so much. “Matthew looks well. Happy.”

Gilbert nods. “Yeah, I think—well, I didn’t know him before, but I think he’s almost back to normal now.” In day-to-day life, that is. Gilbert has of course seen plenty evidence of the emotional scars Braginski left behind, but Matthew is no longer afraid of his own shadow, nor is he so ashamed to exist in his own skin. And he smiles, now, all the time. It’s wonderful. “Which is why I’m not very keen on having Kirkland here.”

“Arthur doesn’t want to hurt him,” Francis says. “He regrets what he did.”

“He told me that, too. But . . .” Gilbert shakes his head. “I don’t know. Once bitten, twice shy.”

“He won’t bite anyone,” Francis assures him, smiling. “He’s learning to have a softer mouth.”

“Really,” Gilbert says dubiously. “Learning from who?”

Francis sips his orange juice. “I provide a soothing atmosphere.”

Gilbert snorts, but in truth he agrees with his friend. If Antonio is good for getting pumped up, Francis is good for unwinding. It’s a relief, to at last be able to relax with Francis without worrying about some incriminating DNA in a laboratory somewhere. Nothing is one hundred percent certain, of course, but it allows life to be easier, and—just this once—Gilbert will take it.

* * *

Matthew leads Arthur to what must be a spare bedroom. There are plastic storage bins on the floor, charcoal grey sheets on the mattress, and several framed photographs of dogs on the walls. Arthur and Matthew sit on the edge of the bed with two feet of space between them, and Arthur is struck by how parental the scene is. It’s like he’s about to ask this kid if he needs help with his homework, or if he’s being bullied at school, or if he knows about the birds and the bees. It strikes Arthur that he’s already lived a third of his life, and only in the past few weeks has he felt rewarded by it. No, not rewarded—just not guilty. Not self-loathing for living in such a way that he knows will make him loathe himself. Not quite happy, nothing so saccharine. Just not completely miserable. So perhaps his amphibious life coach is on to something after all.

Arthur clears his throat. He wants this to be as civil as possible, which is much easier said than done. _Much easier thought than said, if it comes to that._ “Firstly, I want to thank you for agreeing to this. I half-expected you to laugh in my face, not that I’d have blamed you for it. So I appreciate you giving me the time of day.”

Matthew nods. He’s a lot steadier on this bed than he was on the witness stand. “I wanted to talk to you. I figured I wouldn’t get to, if I didn’t do it now.”

“You could be right about that,” Arthur agrees. There is a distinct possibility that he fucks all this up, Francis goes to jail, and Arthur never speaks to Gilbert—and, by extension, to Matthew—again except during testimony on future cases. He wonders if Francis would still speak to him, in that hypothetical reality. Would he forgive Arthur for letting him down? Would he expect Arthur to visit him in prison? Or would he never want to lay eyes on his demon lawyer again? And if he loses this case he can probably say goodbye to his partnership for yet another year—

Now is not the time to think about any of that. In fact, he’s better off not losing himself down those dark mental paths. With his luck, he’ll dwell on those negative outcomes so much he’ll make them happen.

“I’d like to apologize, as well,” Arthur goes on. “To you, personally.” Here’s the difficult bit. “The way I treated you during your competency hearing was . . .” He recalls Francis’s word for it. “Inhumane. I’m truly sorry.”

It sounds disingenuous to his ears, which irks him. How could an emotion like regret, something he can feel so palpably when he remembers Matthew bursting into tears, be expressed with mere words? Especially words spoken aloud; Arthur has never been able to achieve eloquence verbally, at least not when he’s telling the truth. Lying is easy. The greatest works of fiction are lies. But describing your feelings, trying to express the madness inside him so someone else can believe and comprehend it? Borderline impossible.

But Matthew is smiling, albeit small and sad. Arthur watches him, waiting for some sort of acceptance or response. When nothing comes, just those beautiful melancholy eyes meeting his own in an almost pitying way, Arthur can’t stand it. He abandons emotion and returns to the safety of business. “So have you considered the possibility of being a character witness?”

If Matthew is surprised or disappointed, he doesn’t show it. “I’ve thought about it,” he replies. “But I don’t know if I want to do it.” His light voice drops down a few pegs. “I don’t know if I believe that he’s innocent.”

“You don’t need to believe it,” Arthur tells him. _But it would help if you did._ “You just need to answer the questions I ask as truthfully as you can, that’s all.” Matthew looks skeptical, so Arthur adds, “We’ll practise it, beforehand. I won’t be springing anything on you the day of the trial.” He tries a smile, hoping it doesn’t look too much like a grimace. “I’d really rather have you there willingly than subpoena you. I’m sure Antonio will practise questions with you if Gilbert asks him. He—”

“I want to tell you something,” Matthew bursts out.

Arthur stares at him. The boy is almost out of breath, cheeks turning pink; how long had he been holding that in, trying to work himself up to interrupt Arthur? _Brave little thing, once he gets over himself,_ he thinks, then reconsiders Matthew, what he’s been through, and corrects himself: _Brave little thing._

“Okay,” he says, folding his hands in his lap. “Go ahead.”

“I want to tell you what happened to me,” Matthew says. “Before I lived with Ivan.”

Arthur wants to say _That won’t be necessary,_ but he owes Matthew this, doesn’t he? After what he did to him, even if he was just doing his job? And how can he deny this curly-haired, pink-cheeked Omega, who’s gathered all this courage to speak to him about his past?

Matthew takes a deep breath, then begins: “When I was a freshman in high school, a senior Alpha started paying attention to me. I didn’t really have any friends in my own class, so somebody so old and tall and handsome actually wanting to talk to me was amazing. I couldn’t believe it was even happening. He never officially asked me out, but I didn’t realize it back then. He never really listened to what I said, either, but I was too infatuated to care about that. I thought we were in love. I loved him. So when he wanted to have sex with me, I said yes, absolutely. I didn’t want to seem like a loser.” He looks down at his lap, self-deprecating in the worst possible way. “I didn’t want him to think I wasn’t serious about our relationship. So we had sex, and that part wasn’t even really good. I didn’t know what to do or what was supposed to happen—I mean, I expected there to be all kinds of blood, and I thought it was meant to hurt. It did. He hurt me a lot. But I didn’t tell him. He enjoyed it, so I thought I did, too. It made me feel like I was worth something for once.” Matthew picks at a string fraying from his sleeve. “I didn’t think he would tell his friends about it, but he did. They told other people, and those people told more people, and pretty soon the whole town knew. I grew up in a small town, just like this one. No one can keep a secret. When my parents found out, they were so upset. They’re very traditional and religious. They don’t believe in mating before pair-bonding. They told me I wouldn’t amount to anything but a whore, and they didn’t want it to rub off on my little brothers. So I had to leave. Of course, the Alpha wasn’t going to provide for me. I shouldn’t have expected him to. He wouldn’t even let me stay with him, because he didn’t want his parents to know. So I left the whole town and took the first job I found, which was Ivan’s post about wanting an Omega babysitter who could stay at the house. It sounded too good to be true.” He sniffles, lifting teary violet eyes to look at Arthur once again. “And it was.”

Arthur can’t speak, at first. All of it, the religious family, the useless mate, the contrite exodus—the similarity to his own life brutalizes him. His heart hurts so terribly, he can’t tell where the physical pain stops and the emotional agony begins.

Very quietly, he says, “My family was like that, too.”

Matthew studies him, eyes glinting with unfallen tears. After a moment, he says, “Then you know.”

Arthur nods, numb. “Yes, I know.” His voice drops to an aching whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

The younger Omega smiles sadly, gives a little shrug. “It’s your job, right?”

That’s not all that he was apologizing for, but even then—Arthur could have let it go to trial. He didn’t need to end it at the competency hearing like he did. Ivan probably would have gotten acquitted anyway, with the lack of evidence and the fact that it was a domestic dispute rather than an attack in the streets. If he was convicted it would be a short sentence; he probably could’ve made parole, most do. And Arthur is certain that Ivan has enough connections that his stay in a prison would not be uncomfortable. But Arthur was too hungry for a quick victory, and he ignored human decency to get this case over with as soon as possible. _A partner needs to be able to do that,_ Mikkel says again in his mind. _Win._ Surely a partner can have a conscience at the same time.

“You don’t—” Arthur stops, because his voice is a thick rasp. He clears his throat, which starts a painful throb in his chest that he does his best to ignore. “You don’t have to testify. Don’t feel any pressure to. I won’t subpoena you. You don’t owe me anything. You’re . . .” He doesn’t know what he’s saying, but he knows he wished someone had said this to him when he was in Matthew’s position, so he says it even though he’s not sure it makes any sense: “I know you’re trained to love and respect your family, but sometimes they’re bastards. You’re your own person. And you’re not a bastard. So don’t let other people’s opinions affect what you do or who you are.”

For the first time, Matthew’s smile holds no sadness and instead genuine gratitude. “I’ll keep thinking about testifying. I don’t like making quick decisions anymore.”

Arthur doesn’t respond, because he’s worried he won’t be able to get the words out past the burning stone in his chest. It’s never felt like this before. He can _feel_ it, over-aware, inside his ribs. Pounding, squirming. Sweat clams his palms, his forehead, the back of his beck. One fine strand of instinct sticks out like a blood drop in snow, and it says _Run._ But how can he escape himself?

“Are you okay?” Matthew asks, concerned.

Arthur pushes to his feet. “Just need some fresh air.” He sounds inexplicably normal to his ears, only a little breathy. Black flickers at the edges of his field of view as he makes his way unsteadily down the stairs.

Gilbert nearly knocks into him as he crosses from the kitchen to the living room. The German Alpha catches his elbow gently, to keep him upright. “Are you okay?”

An echo, how fitting. _Okay?_ Arthur stumbles backward, a hand on his chest. “Fine,” he gasps, and struggles to open the door with his other shaking hand. Gilbert says something, but he doesn’t hear it. Outside, the chill air assaulting his lungs. He can’t breathe it; he might as well be swallowing an ocean. _Okay?_ His legs have gone so numb he barely feels it when he drops to his knees halfway down the front path. He can hear his heart slamming out some ungodly discord, but his breaths are the worst part, wheezing ugly gasps. He can’t think of anything but Matthew’s face, broken but brave. _Are you okay?_ Rough hands in the dark. _How do you sleep at night?_ Tears wetting a pillow that smelt of cigarettes. _Are we going to fuck again?_ Warm arms offering solace to a monster. _Why?_

Someone is touching him, grasping his shoulders. Francis’s face swims into view, close enough to block out the rest of the world. “Arthur,” he says, loud and frantic, “where are your pills? Where?”

Arthur fumbles to get the white container from his inner pocket, but his hands feel clunky and blunt. Francis holds him upright with one hand and retrieves the pills with the other, putting one tiny yellow tablet on Arthur’s tongue. “Chew it,” Francis advises, so Arthur obeys even though his jaw feels like an immovable object. While he tries to swallow the chalky stuff, Francis slips his other arm under Arthur’s knees and lifts him up. His vision falters. Somewhere, someone: “Put him in the back, I’ll drive.”

Then he sees the grey ceiling of a car interior, and he feels a gentle hand stroking his hair, and he hears a soft fretting voice silenced by a rumbled assurance, and above him there’s a steady _shhhhh, shhhhh._

Arthur closes his eyes and follows the drumbeat of his heart down into a dark, deep tunnel.

* * *

Arthur sees last. First, he hears: a regular mechanical beeping, a queer hissing, distant voices and machinery. Then he smells: antiseptic and piss, the typical hospital smell. His eyelids are so heavy it takes him three tries to pry them all the way open. The room is small, just space for a bed and a narrow door to the bathroom, but there’s a chair beside him that Francis is sitting in, doing a crossword of some sort. To his left, leaning on the windowsill, is the source of the hissing: Alfred, blowing up a rubber glove like a balloon. Arthur’s head sinks into his pillow as he follows the wires up to the beeping machine on the other side of his bed; he can feel the little electrodes taped to his chest when he shifts, and the green triangles on the screen go up and down again and again just like in films. Thankfully, the thumps of his heart the monitor tracks are no longer uneven and painful. He tries to sit up and his head aches with a swirl of disorientation; he flops back against the pillow, groaning.

Alfred’s glove-balloon squeals as the air escapes, but he only grins. “Hey there, sunshine.”

Francis smiles, too, relief plain in those blue eyes. God, they look so blue in this bleak hospital room. He knew they were pretty, but he didn’t realize they were as gorgeous as the rest of him.

“I thought only family was allowed into hospital rooms,” Arthur remarks.

“Aw, you’ve always been my favorite cousin,” Alfred says fondly. “Always following the rules.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and glances at Francis, who says, “I couldn’t be without you.”

Not _I’m not allowed to be without you._ Oh, those eyes, so earnest . . .

The beeps start coming faster, tiny mountains slicing messily across the monitor. Francis looks at it, then at Arthur with a hint of panic. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Arthur replies quickly. He closes his eyes and takes some deep breaths, remembering doing this while lying on the floor in his flat, with Francis’s voice guiding him to peace. When his heart rate has gone back down to normal, he opens his eyes again. “How long have I been out?”

“It’s almost dinnertime,” Alfred tells him.

 _“God,”_ Arthur says. “What a waste of a day.”

“If you need to ask for a continuance, you can,” Francis points out. “The judge can’t punish you for being in the hospital.”

Arthur shakes his head. He’s never had to request a continuance before. He won’t, if he can manage it. Asking for more time feels like defeat, no matter how comfortable he might get with himself.

At that moment, the doctor comes in. Arthur has spoken to Dr. Honda several times, inside of court and out, but he’s never been a patient of him. He’s not half-bad, really; Arthur admires the fact that he gets things done and he doesn’t entertain his time being wasted. _Like Lukas and Emil,_ he thinks now. How have those Omegas made careers for themselves without becoming hateful creatures in the process? What workshop did he miss?

“Good evening,” Dr. Honda says. “How are you feeling?”

“Better than before,” Arthur says. “I can actually breathe, now.”

“Good to hear. How does your heart feel?”

Arthur considers. “Steady. Normal, I suppose. It’s hard to tell, these days.”

Dr. Honda has a blood pressure cuff in his hands. He straps it to Arthur’s upper arm and starts squeezing the little ball on the end. _Old-fashioned,_ Arthur thinks, and does his best to hide a wince when the cuff tightens. “You had what I would call an _episode_ ,” the doctor informs him. “You didn’t have a heart attack or a stroke, but your heartbeat became extremely irregular. You were very dehydrated, as well.”

Francis gives him a scolding look, and Arthur tries to recall the last time he drank before they set out for the Beilschmidt house. At the office? Or at home, before the office? “I’ll drink plenty of water,” Arthur says. “I really have to get out of here, though. I have work to do.”

Dr. Honda looks at the reading from the cuff, then releases it with a loud hiss. Arthur feels the skin-crawly sensation of his blood returning to the squeezed portion of his arm. The doctor watches the heart monitor for a moment, thoughtful, then says, “My professional advice would be to stay here overnight, just in case. But if you want to be discharged, you can go home.” Dark eyes hold him in a solemn grip. “But you cannot exert yourself. No strenuous physical activity. No roller coasters.”

“I think I can manage that.”

“And refrain from salted foods,” Dr. Honda adds. “They’re not doing you any favors.”

Francis gives Arthur an _I told you so_ look. “I’ll keep that in mind,” Arthur says dryly. “Thank you.”

Dr. Honda turns to go, but Alfred’s voice stops him: “Hey, what about chocolate?”

The Japanese Omega seems taken aback for a second. “A small amount of chocolate each day is fine. Moderation is key.”

“Great.” Alfred grins. “Thanks, Doc.”

Dr. Honda nods to them all and excuses himself from the room.

Alfred hands Arthur a pink envelope and a chocolate bar. “I already ate mine,” he says. “Fran didn’t want one.”

“You didn’t wait for me,” Arthur chides. “Tsk.”

“I didn’t wanna starve to death.”

Arthur rolls his eyes again and opens the envelope. There’s a _Get Well Soon_ card inside, with a teddy bear holding a balloon and flowers in its little patchwork paws. Inside, there’s the usual sugary condolence in whimsical font, but beneath that is writing in blue ink: _Dear Arthur. I’ll testify. I want to prove that I can do it, to myself and everyone else. I’m sorry we had to start off like we did. I don’t think you’re a bad person. Hope you’re feeling better. Love, Matthew._ Then in a squared hand: _And Gilbert._

“They got it from the gift shop,” Alfred says warmly. “I helped Matt pick it out. He’s a good little guy.”

“Yes,” Arthur says as a nurse comes in to unhook him from the machinery, “he is.”

* * *

That night, after Alfred joins them for a lovely meal prepared by Francis and the three of them do an audio commentary of a trash movie and Alfred goes back to his apartment and Arthur and Francis brush their teeth, they don’t say a word. Arthur gets into bed. Francis gets into bed. They haven’t made a pillow wall since Francis’s ribs were bruised—on the pretense that Francis needed more room—and Arthur doesn’t bring the custom back tonight. They’re close enough that Arthur can feel the warmth of Francis; he can shift any part of his body a few inches to the right and be touching him. Just that, the thought of touch, makes him want it more than he’s ever wanted anything, because it’s so close, would be so easy . . .

“You can lie closer,” Arthur whispers. “If you want.”

He goes tense, waiting for Francis to rebuke and reject him. He rolls onto his side, facing away in case Francis looks at him, because he can’t stand to see disapproval glaring at him through the dark. These past few days have had so much _almost_ —almost cheating, almost crying, almost losing everything. He stands on the edge of a cliff, and the sky looks no better than the sea below. What he truly wants is—

Francis rolls and spoons him, an arm around his waist. Warmth envelopes Arthur from behind. Softly, Francis asks, “Is this alright?”

 _Nothing has ever been more alright._ “Yes.”

Francis shifts just a tad closer, his knee sliding into the hollow of Arthur’s. “I was so scared when I saw you like that.”

For some reason, that whisper makes Arthur want to cry, but he doesn’t. He says, “I thought I told you not to protect me. Don’t worry about me.”

He wanted his voice to be hard or gruff, but it comes out light. There’s a pause, and Francis heaves a sigh. Arthur thinks that will be the end of it, but then there’s another whisper, this one the softest of all:

“It’s a little late for that, Arthur.”

A shiver makes its way down Arthur’s back, despite the warmth pressing against him. “I helped you. So you owed me.”

“That’s not what this is about,” Francis says, indignant. “I don’t want us to owe each other anything.”

Part of Arthur wants to just stay silent and wait until Francis falls asleep so he can duck his head and breathe in the scent of him, but that would be cowardly and he will not be a coward in his own bed. So he says, “What do you want, then?”

“You”—slight pause—“to be happy.”

“I am happy,” Arthur tells him, and then he realizes he’s telling the truth.

Francis moves his head onto Arthur’s pillow, so Arthur can feel his breath across his hair. “Good. I’m happy, too.”

Arthur can hear the things they’re leaving unsaid, but that little bit—and the fact that he actually invited Francis to hold him—is progress enough for him. He’s pleased that he managed to get out what he did. And he’s pleased that he can accept this comfort without feeling guilty or humiliated. He doesn’t know why happiness has, until now, felt like a sacrifice or a surrender, but he’s very pleased to leave that behind.

Francis falls asleep before him, but he doesn’t mind the snoring anymore.


	13. Staking a Claim

At six a.m., Feliciano gives up trying to sleep. He rises from bed in the silent, absent manner of a ghost. Across the bedroom, his brother doesn’t stir, which relieves him. He still hasn’t quite forgiven him for his harsh words yesterday. Though he is on occasion envious of them, on the whole Feliciano hates how the sharp projectiles Lovino’s tongue can hurl at people. It seems to Feliciano that there is enough nastiness in the world purely by accident—storms, famine, disease, wrong places at the wrong times—without purposefully adding more.

He pads downstairs in fuzzy socks given to him last Christmas. They’re red with white toes and incredibly soft; Feliciano wishes he could have a blanket of this material, or better yet a whole bed to curl up in like a kitty. A gift from Lovino, not Grampa, because the reverend would never buy red clothing for himself or his Omegas. _The color of sin,_ he said, when Feliciano asked why. Lovino owns plenty of red things, these days. Feliciano doesn’t miss the days when they used to clash, before Lovino turned eighteen. _I’m an adult now, you can’t tell me what to do._ Hearing that from the other side of a door, Feliciano’s stomach had dropped to his feet. What if Roma kicked him out? And, worse, what if he sent Feliciano back into foster care? But the reverend had only said, _Honor thy father, Lovino._ And that had been the end of it, until Lovino told Feliciano that night: _He’s not our father._

No, he isn’t. Feliciano has always called him Grampa, from the first day he came to live in the parsonage. Roma was just too old to be a papa or a daddy, though of course on paper he was the adopted sire of both Lovino and Feliciano. They had his name; they were part of his family, his lineage. He hadn’t minded being called Grampa by the little rosy-cheeked pup he adopted, and changing to something more accurate felt like lying these days. Lovino had always strained against Roma’s loving hold, which Feliciano hadn’t understood for the longest time. Feliciano knew perfectly well how terrified his brother was of being abandoned or rejected, because Feliciano himself shared that phobia. So how could he ever refuse hugs, kisses, support and care?

Now, though, Feliciano thinks he knows. Just because someone loves you doesn’t mean it’s good for you. In fact, it can turn into the worst thing to ever happen to you, if you’re not careful.

The adoption literature has been standing between the toaster and the bread bin since Dr. Honda gave it to them, in the same spot the boys used to put their unsigned permission slips and school-picture order forms. Feliciano takes them and sits at the table, making himself a collage of pamphlets and posters. All of them feature smiling Omegas, hopeful couples, happy young pups. Who are they trying to fool with this? Feliciano knows firsthand that adoption is not this sunny, not at all. The pups should be confused and tearful, the couples should be exhausted foster parents, and the dams should be faceless strangers never to be met by the children they leave behind. _You will always be important in your pup’s life,_ says the header of one brochure. Feliciano agrees with this sentiment, but he doesn’t want to be the mysterious villain that leaves his pup wondering why anyone would bother loving him if his own dam couldn’t.

He cups the small swell of his belly with his hand. He’s not sure how much of it is just fat and how much is something more. He can’t be showing this soon, surely. Lovino used to chide him for eating so much, warning him it would all go to his hips as he gets older, but Feliciano doesn’t mind. He’s never been one to care about his physical appearance. He hopes his pup won’t be, either.

“Feli?”

Feliciano jumps. Roma stands in the kitchen doorway in his robe and slippers. For some reason, it’s never occurred to Feliciano that the reverend might not wear pajamas anymore, now that he doesn’t have a young Omega bouncing on his bed each morning. Now Feliciano only sees the old Alpha before bed and after; what happens between is anyone’s guess.

“What are you doing?” the reverend asks, even though Feliciano’s current activity is plainly comprehensible. His voice, soft with the rasp of an Alpha-low voice, reminds Feliciano of the way he used to whisper prayers when he tucked the brothers in each night.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Feliciano admits, because it’s too early in the morning for lies.

Roma sits down at the table with him. He picks up one of the leaflets but doesn’t read it, just runs his thumb again and again along the edge of the pages like he’s shuffling a deck of cards. “Did you try reciting?”

Feliciano nods, even though he didn’t actually recite anything in the night. _So much for honesty._ It used to work, though, to say the old prayers in his head until the words meant nothing and he slipped away to sleep. _That’s because they’re boring,_ Lovino told him. His brother has never been faithful, but it’s only this year that Feliciano has questioned his beliefs. He hasn’t spoken to anyone about it, of course. He hates talking about serious things, always has and always will.

But they’re pressing on him with an unbearable weight this morning, so he hazards a quiet question: “Is it okay to give a pup up for adoption?”

The reverend glances at him. His eyes are dark, tired. “Yes, it is, if it’s in the child’s best interest.”

Feliciano keeps his hand on his belly, already an instinctively calming gesture. Plus, his palm is warm through his cotton shirt. “Is it in the best interest of my pup?”

Roma looks sick just to hear the words— _my pup,_ stark proof that this is all real—come out of his mouth. “I don’t know, Feli.” He drags a hand down his face; his wrinkles look deeper than normal in the weak light of the coming sunrise. “It’s a question I’ve been asking myself over and over again.” He fixes a weary gaze on him. “I can’t decide on the answer.”

Feliciano looks down at the literature, but the words are swimming. “I . . .” He’s so, so tired—of all of this. “I-I wouldn’t mind having a pup.”

The reverend’s gaze is almost heavier than the topic. “But this child would be a constant reminder of where it came from, cucciolo.”

Oddly enough, it’s the term of affection that has tears rising behind his eyes. “I know, but . . . it’s not his fault.” He wants to glance at his belly, but for some reason it feels dangerous, drawing attention to the precious bundle of life growing inside him. “He’s just a baby.”

Roma turns his face away. “If you had a dam here, it would be different. I don’t know anything about raising newborns.”

Gently, Feliciano says, “That’s okay. We can get help.”

“. . . Maybe.” The skeptical response isn’t the end of it, as his pause would have Feliciano think. “This will make it difficult for you to go to school, you know.”

Feliciano nods. Of course he knows this. This nightmare has already made education an emotional hardship, without the demands of a pup added on to that. He enjoyed going to school, but he won’t miss it.

“What did you want to do?” Roma takes Feliciano’s hand in his larger, warmer one. “After you graduated?”

They’ve had this conversation before, but never seriously. _I’ll be a runway model, I’ll be a ballerina, I’ll be rich and famous. I’ll travel the world and invent a new kind of pasta sauce and they’ll make it in big factories with water slides inside only it’s not water it’s sauce!_ But these fantasies are dead and buried, rotted to nothing now. Feliciano can do nothing but whisper: “I just wanted to be a housedam.”

It shames him, a bit, to admit that, even with an audience this traditional. These days it’s not something anyone seems to encourage, pair-bonding and making a family. All Lovino wanted to do was get out there in the world, get educated, and start making his own money. Independence above all else, that’s what his brother wanted, and yet through it all he was anxious and never seemed happy. Feliciano doesn’t want a big important job with high stakes and a long list of responsibilities. Cooking, cleaning, loving—these are the things he knows how to do, the things he enjoys the most. Perhaps that’s old-fashioned or reductionist or anti-Omega, but he doesn’t care. He’s sick of being judged for what other people want.

Roma is nodding, unsurprised. “It would be good if you got a diploma, just in case you do want to work somewhere. Someday.”

“I could get a GED,” Feliciano ventures, though even the prospect of that frightens him and carries a certain stigma in his mind.

Roma’s nod is short, this time, his lips pressed together. He releases Feliciano’s hand and lets his own fall into his lap. They sit in silence for a long moment, Feliciano thumbing the same little nick in the tabletop over and over again, Roma’s gaze drifting slowly around the room as if taking stock of all the things they’ve managed to hold on to.

Eventually, the reverend stands up. “Well. I suppose if we’re not sleeping we should start making breakfast.”

Feliciano gets up too. There’s a disheartening lack of closure to the open-ended conversation that he fears may not ever be finished. Roma gathers up all the adoption literature and, from the corner of his eye, Feliciano watches him dump the lot of it into the garbage bin. At the same time it makes Feliciano feel relieved—he’ll be allowed to keep his pup, after all—it also makes him want to cry. He wonders if he’s shed so many tears in the past couple weeks that this is just how his body reacts to the world now: met with malevolence or benevolence, an outpouring of sadness is the most honest first impression he can make. He has never wanted to be that kind of person, but this has never been about what Feliciano wants.

* * *

After a week of to-ing and from-ing about the firm without seeing hide nor hair of Mikkel, the Danish Alpha appears once again in the doorway of his office. Francis stands up immediately from the sofa, and Arthur in turn rises from his chair and holds up a calming hand. Francis’s gaze shifts from Arthur to Mikkel, dark with distrust.

Mikkel’s mouth twists ruefully. “Can I talk to you in my office, Mr. Kirkland?”

Francis steps forward, and Arthur says, “It’s alright, Francis.” He does find this protective routine a bit tedious, but mostly he’s warmed to see proof that someone cares about him enough to square his shoulders at someone a foot taller. Arthur meets his boss’s gaze. “It’ll be alright.”

An inquiry posed as a statement, of course, and Mikkel nods to confirm it with guilt in his eyes. Arthur takes that as a good sign—it’s a rare miracle to see something like guilt associated with someone like Mikkel Densen—and follows him to his office. There’s no whiskey, no foreboding tone to the air. They sit on the leather couches this time, with the coffee table between them. Arthur sits back, his legs crossed. Mikkel hunches forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. As always, Arthur appreciates the Alpha’s shoulders stretching taut the material of his jacket, but for the first time he also acknowledges that such a physique is quite likely to spoil the line of a suit if it’s not careful.

“I want to apologize.” Mikkel’s gaze flashes to Arthur, then away, then back again. “For my actions last week.”

Arthur is more shocked by the lack of confidence than the words themselves. “You weren’t exactly sober.”

He regrets making the excuse as soon as he says it, and luckily Mikkel doesn’t let it fly. “No, but that’s no reason to be forgiven for what I did. That’s not how I want this business to be run, and it’s not how I want to conduct myself, either. So I apologize, and I promise it won’t happen again.”

There isn’t a large stock of Alphas Arthur would believe after a speech like that, but he believes this one. For all his swagger and ambition, Mikkel has never been—at least in the time Arthur’s known him—a liar. He will use unsightly means to represent his client, just as Arthur did, but he will never break rules or outright badger.

“Very well,” Arthur says formally. “I accept your apology.”

Mikkel nods, grateful, and stares down at the rug. Arthur follows his gaze but finds nothing of note. They sit in silence for several moments, Mikkel seemingly lost in thought, Arthur waiting to be dismissed because it seems rude to just get up and go, despite the circumstances.

Finally, he can’t take the boredom anymore—especially when he has so many things to do, so many finishing touches to make sure everything is proofed and perfect—so he prompts, “Did you have something else you wanted to talk about, Mr. Densen?”

“Do you want kids?” This asked with the abrupt blurting of a thought that has repeated itself over and over again until it escapes at the slightest inquiry. To his credit, Mikkel looks a bit sheepish afterward, but he doesn’t qualify it with _You don’t have to answer_ or anything like that.

“Right now? Not at all,” Arthur replies. It’s probably an inappropriate conversation to be having with an employer, but he doesn’t particularly care. “Why do you ask?”

For a second he wonders if this might be worry for the future—perhaps a partnership won’t be awarded to someone ditching work for maternity leave and evermore distracted by pups—but then Mikkel asks, “Would you agree to having pups if your mate really wanted to?”

Arthur considers the frigid looks that have passed between Mikkel and Lukas as of late. He also considers some future version of himself, mated and unburdened by dark feelings, enchanted by the biological imperative to breed. There is something to be said for the aesthetic of pup-having, everything soft terry cloth and apple sauce. “I might,” Arthur allows. “But I wouldn’t leave work.”

“You’re gonna find yourself a stay-at-home sire?” Mikkel has perked up a bit now, perhaps amused at the concept of a domestic Alpha, which irks Arthur a lot more than it would have a month ago.

He thinks about Francis standing in his little kitchen in faded jeans, tucking hair behind his ear while the other hand stirs simmering soup, rolling over in bed to steal an extra five minutes of sleep while Arthur gets up to shower and totally doesn’t stop to enjoy the view of the small of Francis’s back disappearing beneath the shifted covers.

“I might,” Arthur says again. He uncrosses his legs. “Look, you shouldn’t have kids just because someone else wants you to. You have to like kids. And I’m really not the person to ask about this stuff.”

Mikkel looks away, brow furrowed in thought.

“Are you alright?” Arthur asks, when it occurs to him that this expression might be betraying some hitherto unreadable sadness. He recalls the face of his eldest brother when the anniversary of their sire’s death came: jutted jaw, crossed arms, brow low on the eyes. Any expression of grief more intense than a thoughtful look would be too emotional for an Alpha.

Mikkel clears his throat. “Yeah, fine.”

Arthur arches an incredulous brow. “You know you’re allowed to talk about how you feel, right? It’s a bother, I’ll admit that, but it does help in the long-run.”

Mikkel stares at him. Arthur doesn’t recognize the look on his face, so he assumes it’s more of this complicated sadness. It’s a slow-blooming flower, but it’s definitely there.

“But do it with your mate,” Arthur adds. “It means a lot more to him than to me.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Mikkel sits back on the sofa, hands hanging limp between spread legs. “Right.”

The casual posture fools no one. Arthur will never understand how people can be so frightened of those they love, not that he’s innocent of it either. “You are pair-bonded to him. Is it really that hard to talk to him?”

“It’s easier with you,” Mikkel says meekly.

“That’s because you see me as an Alpha.” There was a time when that realization would have filled him with validation and excitement, but now it’s pretty much neutral. He just hopes Francis’s armchair psychology isn’t rubbing off too much.

Mikkel blinks. “Isn’t that how you want to be seen?”

 _Alright, how has this turned round to be about me._ “I want to be seen as an equal,” he says. “That just tends to be the same thing as an Alpha, that’s all.”

Mikkel’s brow furrows again, and Arthur stands up, stepping over to the door, since they’ve abandoned professionalism long ago. In the doorway, he pauses, turns. “Have you ever cried in front of your mate?”

The Danish Alpha looks affronted. “Of course not.”

“Try it. You’d be surprised how calming it is.”

Mikkel’s mouth flattens, dubious.

Arthur shakes his head. “Just tell him how you feel and see what happens.” It’s refreshing, being on this side of things. No wonder Francis tells people how to live their lives, it’s fun. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I need to get back to my client, before he breaks down the door.”

“That’s all he is to you?” Mikkel climbs to his feet, hands in his pockets. “A client?”

Arthur goes quite still. “No,” he says pointedly. “He’s my friend, too.”

And he walks off, back to Francis.

* * *

“Okay, I’m going to turn the light back on now.”

“Okie doke.” Alfred watches the optometrist but avoids looking at the eye poster on the wall. Why are they so horrifically orange, with those icky purple veins? And, more importantly, why do they always look like onions? He likes onions, but he doesn’t want to imagine he’s eating sliced eyeballs on his hamburger. “So what’s the damage, Doc?”

“Well, the short version is you need glasses.”

“Glasses?” He sits up straighter. “Like, only sometimes glasses? Like reading picture books to grandkids glasses?”

“No, like glasses you need to wear to legally drive,” the optometrist replies without looking away from his computer.

“Damn, really?” Alfred’s father has glasses, no hair on top of his head, and a paunch that hangs over his belt. Alfred’s hair is already on the way out, though he makes sure to comb it so you’d never know. This feels like another nail in the coffin.

“Afraid so.” The optometrist gives the keyboard one last tap and spins his chair to face Alfred. “You can go pick out the frames you’d like and we’ll order your lenses.”

 _Just like that?_ It feels like there should be some condolence or handshake. Alfred climbs off the big chair. “Oookay.”

Out he goes, to browse. He has no idea why the carpet in an optometrist’s office is so hard on the eyes; perhaps that’s part of the business model, like a car mechanic having a parking lot full of potholes. The walls are lined with a long grid of frames, staring out with blind eyes. Alfred has never considered what sort of glasses he would want. Maybe he should look into getting contacts. Are those expensive? And how do you get them out once they’re in?

The waiting area was empty when his appointment started, but now there’s an Alpha sitting there. Alfred checks him out in the corner of his eye. He’s filling out the same form Alfred filled out when he came in earlier. “First-timer?” Alfred asks, smiling over at him.

The Alpha glances around himself as if expecting Alfred to be addressing someone else. “Here, yes.”

Alfred’s smile widens. This guy is broad-shouldered, blond-haired and blue-eyed, with the same serious look Arthur used to have that means he’ll get easily flustered by someone like Alfred. Alfred usually likes darker types, but beggars can’t be choosers—and he’s not complaining about a cute jock like this. He tries on a pair of black frames. “How do these look? Okay?”

The Alpha observes him with the gravity of a judge. “Yes, they look good.”

Alfred struggles to place his accent. It has the faintness of a second generation. Somewhere European, in any case. “You think so?”

“Well,” the blond demurs, “don’t base your choice on my opinion.”

Alfred laughs. “Don’t worry, I won’t hunt you down afterward for cursing me with ugly glasses.”

A hesitant chuckle, nice and deep. Alfred tries on a new pair, metallic grey. “How about these instead?”

“Hmm. Those might be better than the other. The thicker lenses sort of block your face.”

“That’s just sacrilege,” Alfred says, and there’s a funny little quirk to the Alpha’s thin lips. Alfred looks around some more, partly to give the guy a chance to finish filling out his form. Alfred takes a moment to think pedantically; he’s not into fashion, but he figures it’s safer to get black or brown, since those go with everything. Bright red would be cool—and would match his car—but he suspects they’ll make the rest of his clothes look shabby in comparison. He needs glasses nobody’ll notice. He glances in the mirror and goes back and forth: black, then tortoiseshell, then thin metal frames. The black ones make him look young, but at his age he’s not sure if that’s a good or bad thing; he’s in that grey area where it can still be a compliment or an insult.

He abandons the tortoiseshell and returns to the blond Alpha. “Okay, which should I get?” He holds up both pairs to his face in quick succession. “Which makes me look sexier?”

Just as he’d hoped, the Alpha’s ears turn pink. He stutters some ums and ahs until Alfred saves him: “Which makes me look more professional?”

The Alpha points to the metal frames, so Alfred puts those back and slides the black ones on, grinning. “Thanks.”

Now the Alpha laughs. “You don’t like looking professional?”

“Nah, not really.” Alfred smiles. “I guess you do, huh? You look like a doctor or something real serious and important.”

He shakes his head, amused. “No, not quite. I’m sort of between things right now, to tell you the truth.”

“No shame in that. Variety’s the spice of life and all that. I could do without it when it’s a change like this, though. I’m only twenty-seven, there should be a refund for these eyes, right? The warranty can’t be up yet.” He recalls, too late, the dating articles online that advised against rambling and tries to regroup with a question: “Do you have glasses already?”

The Alpha takes a rectangular pair out of his pocket and slides them on. “Reading glasses. I suspect I’m in the market for a new prescription.”

Alfred whistles. “Wow. Now you really do look like a doctor. Or, no, you look like a professor. Like somebody with a PhD.”

A light smile. “I’m glad I look like I make a good salary.”

“God, I hope I don’t look like that.” Hands on his hips, a move he’s seen Arthur use because it shows any watching Alpha precisely where he should look. “False advertisement.” Then he immediately loses the pose so he can offer a hand. “Sorry, name’s Alfred.”

The Alpha shakes it with a polite smile. “Ludwig.”

 _Ooh, German._ “You wanna stay in touch?”

Ludwig’s eyes widen in surprise, but he nods. “Sure. Do you want my email address?”

Alfred stifles a laugh. _What a dork this guy is._ He loves it. “I was thinking more like cell phone number.”

Ludwig recites nine digits and Alfred adds it into his contacts. Just as he presses the save button, the optometrist stops at the end of the hallway and says, “Ludwig? I’m ready for you now.”

The German Alpha rises to his full height and Alfred tips his head back a bit, awed. _So am I._ Ludwig catches him staring and Alfred quickly grins. “Hey, good luck in there.”

Ludwig smiles. “Thanks.”

Then he’s gone, disappearing down the hall and into the office, to sit in the same chair Alfred just sat in. Alfred watches him go, then turns to the secretaries. “I’ll take these.”

* * *

The next day, Arthur lasts to lunchtime until he starts feeling the telltale warm grogginess of pre-heat. He doesn’t even realize it at first; he catches himself sliding down into his chair and notices he’s been typing a steady _hhhhhhhhhhhhh_ for three full lines in his current document, like the longest sigh. Arthur highlights it, deletes it, and remembers what he did: “Fuck me.”

Francis glances up, startled. “What?”

“I forgot to take my Pill last night.” He slaps his own cheeks without much force, trying to wake himself up. “And I’ve been taking it later than I’m supposed to lately. I keep forgetting because my routine is fucked.”

Francis looks him over, probably struggling to pinpoint his mood with the combination of a dreamy expression and swearing. “For the better, though, right?”

“Granted.” Arthur tries a sip of tea but that has an adverse effect. Warmth is not what he needs. “But not in this particular case. I’m in pre-heat now. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“Well,” Francis says, which means he has. “Will it stop if you take one now?”

“No. That’s not how it works.” Arthur sighs in irritation and calls up chambers. After the rigmarole of connecting all the proper people to the call and then explaining his current and rather humiliating situation, the judge tells them it can be postponed.

“It will have to be after Christmas,” Berwald says. “The twenty-ninth is the soonest it can be scheduled.”

“That’s fine with me, Your Honor,” Arthur says, even though it sort of isn’t. He has postponed hearings because of heat before, but always just minor ones, appeals or bail—never the main trial. _First time for everything, I guess._ There’s no getting around it. And really, he doesn’t mind so long as it’s Antonio he’s bothering.

“Me too, Judge,” Antonio says. He sounds sort of strange, sort of _tired_ to Arthur. Well, good. About time the prosecution puts some work in.

Right after Arthur hangs up there’s a knock on the door. “Hello,” Arthur says, then shakes his muddled head and corrects himself: “Come in.” He sees Francis lift a hand to hide his smile and glares over with as much hostility as he can manage. _Bloody Alphas._

Emil opens the door. “Good afternoon, Mr. Kirkland. Would you like to go to lunch with me? Lukas didn’t want to, so I’m sort of by myself, unless you want to come too.”

Arthur glances at Francis, uncertain. Francis is smiling encouragingly now. Arthur finds himself leaning on agreement, but he’s not sure, well . . . how. He hasn’t had lunch with an acquaintance in years. How is this actually done?

“Mr. Bonnefoy is welcome to join us,” Emil says.

“Well, okay,” Arthur says hesitantly. He’s surprised at the amount of relief he feels when Francis nods. He feels muffled by the cushions of pre-heat; he’s not sure how advisable it is to go out in public with someone he barely knows when he doesn’t have the usual defenses up. And he’s not sure why Francis is a replacement for his own good sense, but . . . maybe that does make sense, actually.

Emil brightens like a pup on Christmas. He leads them to the place across the street—Arthur and Francis both shivering in the cold wind, for different reasons—which turns out to be a coffee shop that Arthur always figured was for hipsters because of the DIY neon signs and stools instead of chairs at the tables. They secure themselves a corner spot—only empty because of its proximity to the rush of cold air that comes every time the door opens—and Francis breaks his neck to ogle the rack of flour-dusted pastries on the counter.

It’s an Omega who brings them their drinks and eats, thankfully. Arthur doesn’t know if anyone can smell him yet, but he hopes not. He felt naked the first time he left the flat without his cologne, but having it disarmed of its purpose— _I can still smell you_ —made it lose most of its appeal. In all honesty, he doesn’t really like the smell of it, so it is rather pleasant going without. _Normal,_ he supposes that would be called.

“How’s the case going?” Emil asks, dabbing butter on a sourdough bun. Arthur never noticed quite how dainty his secretary is. He suspects most of the gestures are inherited from Lukas.

“It’s good,” Arthur replies. “The—” He stops himself. He doesn’t think Emil will go spreading tender information, but he’d rather not let his mouth get away from him. “I’m optimistic.”

“You don’t say that very often,” Emil remarks. His pale gaze shifts to Francis. “How do you feel about it?”

The French Alpha brushes crumbs from a soft smile. “Whatever happens, I know I’ll be represented very well.”

Arthur feels himself beaming like an idiot and takes a long sip of coffee—not tea, in the hopes that the bitter black stuff will wake him up some. He recalls Lovino Vargas sitting at the front desk in the DA office, trying to work through pre-heat. Did he get anything done that day? Or did he feel just as scatterbrained and pleasantly fuzzy as Arthur does right now?

“Are you feeling alright, Mr. Kirkland?” Emil asks.

“Yes,” Arthur replies promptly. “I’m just tired. And you can call me Arthur, by the way. If you want to, I mean.”

Francis looks inexplicably proud, and Emil’s concerned smile softens considerably. “Okay,” his secretary replies. “Arthur. Well, I heard we’re getting some snow later this week. I hope the roads don’t get too icy.”

“They prioritize the city,” Francis points out. “After the highway, of course. So they’ll make sure you’re good and salted.”

Arthur more or less tunes out the small talk. He pays enough attention that he’ll notice if his name is mentioned, but other than that he lets the conversation meld with the chatter and clatter of the coffee shop. It smells even better in here than it does in the bakery in town, everything sweet and deep and rich. He takes in the people, scarves and hats and phones. Then he focuses on his tablemates. Has Emil always had those chipmunk cheeks? They remind him of Matthew. Arthur wonders if the rather meek, dependent young Omega will grow up to be like Emil, perfectly organized and self-assured. He hopes Matthew won’t turn out like himself. He can’t imagine Gilbert sticking around to put up with that.

Arthur is drawn from his reverie by Francis standing up. “Right back,” the French Alpha says with a quick smile, then weaves through tables en route to the washroom at the back. Arthur watches him go, then turns to meet Emil’s amused gaze.

“He seems nice,” his secretary remarks, with something loaded about his tone.

“He’s alright,” Arthur says, which for some reason makes Emil laugh.

“Are you going back to work after this?” There’s a knowing kindness in his eyes now, one that would most likely be replaced with awkwardness and a bit of fear if not arousal if Arthur was talking to an Alpha. Quite refreshing, talking to someone who doesn’t make it a _thing_ —because even equalist Alphas make it a _thing_ by overcompensating and petitioning for things like heat rooms in workplaces. Arthur has ever seen anything wrong with just staying home. _If it’s not broken, don’t fix it._ But just this, the vague matter-of-fact acknowledgement of Arthur’s state as if it’s a totally normal, commonplace thing—which it is—is a nice change.

“No,” Arthur replies. “I don’t think I’ll be able to get anything done. I might as well just go home.”

Emil nods. After a brief pause, he says, “I think it’s brave of you, anyway.”

“What is?”

“Working upstairs, with the Alphas.” Emil’s eyes widen slightly as he hastens to add, “Not that I’m scared of Alphas, it’s just—”

“They’re intimidating,” Arthur finishes.

Emil’s gaze flashes to him, searching his face, then relaxes. “Yeah, they are.” His mouth quirks with something like wonder. “I didn’t think anything intimidated you.”

Arthur can only scoff.

“You always seem so confident,” his secretary insists.

“Well, so do you,” Arthur tells him, reluctant to reveal that he’s still mostly in the first step of _fake it ’til you make it._

“I just try to act like Lukas,” Emil admits. “But don’t tell him I said that. Please.”

“I’m likely to forget the majority of this conversation by the end of the week,” Arthur says. Heats have a way of erasing details and conjuring others, which is why it’s pretty much impossible to rely on Omega testimony if an Alpha mates him without consent during heat. But, of course, there’s the question of should Alphas be held responsible for giving in to the pull of instincts, and whether or not heat pheromones should legally count as an influence like drugs and alcohol, and Arthur did enough debating about it in law school that he knows it’s easiest to just let the old Alphas in suits make the decisions and work around them.

“Oh,” Emil says.

Arthur’s not sure if he’s hallucinating the disappointment or not, but to be safe he adds, “But I’ll remember the bit where I had a good time with you.”

The smile on Emil’s face makes Arthur wonder how thick the force field was that he used to keep between himself and the rest of the world. It’s impressive, how blind he kept himself to potential happiness. He returns the smile. He hopes he’ll be able to continue these sorts of interactions when he doesn’t feel so cuddly. Perhaps he should write himself a letter. _Dear Future Self. Don’t be a bitch. Signed, Yours Truly._

Francis returns just then, and Arthur watches his nostrils flare and his pupils dilate a bit before he snaps out of it and smiles down at the Omegas. “Ready to go?”

“Yes.” Arthur stands up with a hand around the edge of the table to steady himself. “You can take the afternoon off if you want.”

Emil sort of laughs. “Can I get a rain check on that?”

“Sure.” Arthur’s not sure when Francis took his hand, but he’s not unhappy about it.

“I should ask for that in writing,” Emil says, addressing Francis more than Arthur. “In case the heat gets rid of it.”

“Francis can remember for me,” Arthur says, patting his shoulder.

He’s never seen such a big grin on the French Alpha’s face. “I’ll lock it away.”

Emil smiles at them both. “Thanks.”

* * *

Even though he really should be in a bad mood today—he forgot to get his clothes out of the dryer last night and the milk was somehow sour in the fridge this morning despite being two days before the expiry date, on top of all the work-related bullshit he’s dealing with—Antonio is actually smiling as he drives over to the parsonage. The fact is, he likes practising testimony. It brings him back to school days: elementary school Christmas concerts and middle school musicals (he tried to start a theater group in high school but there wasn’t enough interest so he had to settle for the debate team). He loves memorizing lines and practising the best way to deliver them; he loves perfecting the rhythm of the questioning so it’s easy to follow for the jury, with a dramatic flair if he’s nearing the end of an important line of inquiry. As a pup, when asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, he’d never said _lawyer._ He’d favored a more glamorous pursuit: _a superstar!_ As his dam said fondly, _Toni loves the spotlight._ And why not? Antonio doesn’t see anything wrong with drawing attention to yourself, especially if you’re spreading a good message while you do it. Of course, it’s pretty hard to become an actor/celebrity/philanthropist without being born into a significant amount of money, and his sire wasn’t willing to pay any tuition for _some frilly art school,_ so lawyer seemed the best solution. His family is proud of him, at least in that regard. Every visit home is tainted by increasingly obvious hints from his dam: _I was cleaning and I found this old necklace, it’s your grandam’s. It’s a family heirloom, I could give it to your mate._ You know, if he had one.

It’s snowing now, big fat flakes that the wipers have to flick off the windshield. Antonio has the heat cranked as hot as it’ll go in his car—well, it’s the car he shares with Francis but it might as well be his because he uses it more, even though it is technically in Francis’s name—and his fingers are still cold where they poke out of his pulled-down sleeves. He’ll never understand how someone like Gilbert—pale and cool to the touch even in the summertime—can be less sensitive to the cold than him. _He’s built for it,_ Francis said once, teeth chattering as the trio made their way across a parking lot. _He’s a Germanic wolf._ Gilbert’s brow had lowered, but he must’ve decided it was a compliment because he asked, _What does that make you guys?_ That one stumped Francis for the better part of a minute. _Um . . . Well, Toni can be one of those little desert foxes with the big ears. Those are cute._ Antonio had laughed kindly at the effort. _Hey, I’ll take it. You’re a cat, by the way, Fran._ Gilbert had nodded wisely. _Yeah, you’re a cat. Definitely._ Francis had looked quite pleased, as Antonio knew he would.

Antonio doesn’t bother blocking out memories like that anymore. He doesn’t bother feeling guilty about them, either. Life is too short to spend so much time worrying over the past, and besides—so many of his memories include Francis, if he recategorized them all as negative he’d have only a handful of happiness left.

When he pulls up in the driveway, Lovino is outside, shaking out salt from a yellow bag onto the front path. He glances up when he hears the car but goes back to his sprinkling without pause. Antonio lingers in the car a moment, partly because he doesn’t want to greet the cold air and partly because he doesn’t want to greet the cold Omega. _Not cold,_ he corrects. _Fiery. Feisty._ Antonio likes the flames, until they burn him. He’s not sure if he has himself to blame for it or not. All of this is so complicated. He cracks a bubble in his cinnamon gum. He always thought himself so emotionally open and introspective, like Francis, until all this started. Now he just wishes his feelings would turn off for five minutes.

At last, Antonio turns the car off and walks over to Lovino. The Omega looks up at him, holding the stiff bag against his chest like armor. Antonio puts his hands into the pockets of his coat. Their breaths form a cloud between them.

“Feli is asleep,” Lovino says, rather flat. Similar to the tone he used when Francis used to flirt with him, weary and uninviting of foolishness. “He’s having a nap.”

“That’s alright.” Antonio’s a bit relieved, actually. He’s wanted some alone time with Lovino since their last conversation went south. “We can practise your testimony first.”

Lovino leads him inside without another word. They take off their coats with no sound other than the shucking of material against material, and Antonio is struck by the domesticity: Alpha and Omega, shrugging off their outerwear after an evening out, or perhaps just a trip to get groceries or drop their pup off at a friend’s house for a sleepover. _Alone time._ Antonio has never felt his hands actually itch to touch someone’s waist, but he feels it now.

In the living room, they sit on either end of the sofa. Lovino tucks one leg beneath himself; Antonio crosses his ankles on the floor. It’s a flash, but Antonio can’t help seeing it: Lovino on his back, sprawled over the cushions, Antonio on top of him, tugging apart the oversize buttons of Lovino’s cardigan. A tangle of mocha limbs. Antonio puts another piece of gum into his mouth, to distract himself. It doesn’t burn him as much as he’d hoped.

Lovino is watching him closely. Antonio offers the pack. Lovino pops a piece out and puts it on his tongue. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Their fingers brush when he takes the gum back. He avoids Lovino’s gaze, takes the piece of paper from his pocket and unfolds it. “Alright. So when it begins, I’ll call you to the stand. You’ll come up to sit, and I’ll say good morning or good afternoon and ask you things like your name, age, employment, and relation to Feliciano.”

He waits, and Lovino raises an eyebrow slightly. “Lovino Vargas. Twenty-one. DDA secretary. Older brother.”

 _Some enthusiasm would be good._ Not too much, of course; the jury has to be sympathetic. It’s the kind of iffy balance that Antonio suspects would just piss Lovino off, so he doesn’t bring it up. Instead, he goes on, “Right, good. Then I’ll ask you to recount the events of the night of the assault, starting from when you got home from work.”

Lovino sinks back against the couch a bit. “I got home around five, I guess. Maybe five-thirty. Ish.”

“It’s good to be as specific as possible,” Antonio puts in.

Lovino glances at him.

“But we’ll get it on the day,” Antonio adds hastily. “For now, just rough times is fine.”

“Anyway. Five-ish. I got home. I walk Feliciano home from school every day, so he got home the same time I did. The reverend was already here. Feliciano made supper. We ate it. Then I guess we just watched TV, I don’t know. Nothing important happened. The reverend fell asleep in his chair like he always does, and I was tired so I went to bed early. At, like, eight? Or maybe even seven-thirty. Some time between those, I don’t know. Then Feliciano woke me up at eight-thirty-ish, and said he was attacked in the street. He was crying.”

Antonio nods. It used to stir anguish, but not anymore. Exposure. Eventually, anything can be normalized. “What happened after that?”

“I told him he should go to the police, but he just cried more and said he didn’t want to go anywhere, he just wanted to go to bed. Then he had a bath, and I went down to finish making our lunches, and we went to bed.”

 _He had a bath._ “Did you tell him it was a bad idea to wash?”

“No, I didn’t.” Lovino’s mouth goes hard. “I told him he should go to the police right away, and he refused. I didn’t want to make him more upset. I was upset, too.”

Antonio nods, looking down at the paper. _This is a nightmare._ “Okay.” He can’t give up on this. He is not a quitter. “And the next morning, what happened?”

“Feli didn’t feel well, so he didn’t go to school. I went to work, and I came home for lunch, to check on him. I told him one last time, he should report it to the police. And this time he listened to me. So we walked to the station and he told Gilbert what happened.”

Antonio makes a note to ask Feliciano why he was so reluctant, though he’s not sure he’ll like the answer. The gum tastes bland in his mouth. _Ugh._ He wishes he could lie down on this couch and vent to Francis until all of this stuff isn’t swirling so violently inside his head. _Need some therapy, mon copain?_ No matter how upset Francis was, he was always willing to listen and offer advice. Again, Antonio asks himself the question: _How could I have trusted him?_ And there’s an answer, now: _How could I not?_

“Toni,” Lovino says, stark in its softness.

Antonio turns to him.

Lovino regards him with an—as of late—uncharacteristic kindness. “Do you want a glass of water?”

Antonio wonders if there’s something hidden in there, an apology perhaps. Gilbert speaks in this sort of hidden language sometimes, a product of the stoic Beilschmidt upbringing. As far as he knows, Antonio tends toward saying what he means. He prefers when others do it, at least.

“Yes,” he says, grateful. “That would be nice.”

Lovino gets up, wrapping his cardigan tighter round himself as he crosses the room. Antonio drops his gaze to the wrinkled paper in his hand. Questions for Lovino on one side, Feliciano on the other. He has more for Feliciano than for his brother, naturally. He tried to minimize them as much as possible. Arthur’s cross-examination of Feliciano is going to be his least favorite part of the trial, he’s calling it now. He’ll just have to be ready to object, like an old Omega hovering over a bingo card with a dobber poised.

Antonio lifts his head, cocks it slightly. Is that—yes, it is, he hears a faint whimpering. It must be upstairs. He glances at the kitchen doorway. Should he tell Lovino? But the little sound, the pitiful, lonely, helpless, _pleading_ little sound . . .

Antonio stands up and goes up the stairs two at a time. Only one door is ajar, and he peeks in to see a bedroom halved: pink and strewn with clothes on one side, yellow and decorated with crafty flowers and bunnies on the other. On the yellow side, Feliciano lies on his bed, curled up as tightly as a human being can. Feliciano’s back is to him, but now Antonio can hear that he’s whimpering words: _Please . . . I’m sorry . . . forgive me . . ._

It seems pretty rude to interrupt what Antonio assumes are prayers, but Antonio’s here now, and when he tries to back up the door creaks and gives him away anyway. “Feli.”

The young Omega rolls over, eyes pink but cheeks dry. “Hi, Toni.”

Antonio glances around the room again. “Can I come in?”

“Sure.” Feliciano sits up, hugging his knees to his chest.

Antonio joins him on the bed. The mattress is small enough that it dips significantly beneath his weight. He wonders if Roma knows just how much his adopted pups have outgrown this place. “Do you want to talk? About anything?”

To his surprise, Feliciano shakes his head. Then, to his shock, Feliciano crawls over and practically sits in Antonio’s lap. The Omega curls up again, this time with his face buried in Antonio’s shirt. Without thinking, Antonio puts his arms around him, and the effect is instantaneous: Feliciano melts into him, sighing in utter contentment. With that sound, the torment inside Antonio eases a bit and he rests his chin on soft auburn hair. Feliciano sounds and smells like a happy Omega, and that in itself is a comfort.

Antonio lifts his head, protective, at movement in the corner of his eye. Lovino stands in the doorway, a glass of water in his hand. Most importantly, though, he has a warm expression on his face, a smile on his lips and in his eyes. Antonio is again relieved there’s no jealousy, and of course grateful to see forgiveness in that hazel gaze.

He’s surprised, still, at what Lovino will do for his precious fratellino.

* * *

“Arthur. _Aaarthurrr._ Wake up, sleepyhead.”

“Mmm—?” Arthur blinks bleary eyes open. His neck aches a little, and he realizes he’s sitting at his desk with his head on his paperwork. Francis smiles fondly down at him and tugs him to his feet so he can scoop him up into his arms. It’s not as easy without adrenaline aiding his muscles, but he manages; Arthur is too groggy to care about being bounced about.

“I have to work,” he protests, reaching a limp hand toward his desk as it grows farther away.

“You have to rest,” Francis corrects, “and you can’t do that properly at a table.”

Arthur tries to find a good argument against that, but then he’s deposited in bed and Francis places a perimeter of pillows around him and he’s lulled into a lovely low, warm dreaminess just shy of sleep. Time is nonexistent here; the next thing he knows, he’s being roused again, this time by the delicious smells wafting in through the half-open door. He can’t name any of the food causing these scents, but he wants to eat them all, immediately. He gets out of the bed—staggering a little, because his limbs are still heavy and sleepy—and wanders out to the kitchen.

Francis is setting two plates on the table. Two plates, two glasses, and even two tealights he must’ve found in the back of a cabinet; Arthur bought them years ago on the off-chance the power went out and all his electronic sources of light were dead. They make it a bit hard to see the food, but what Arthur can make out looks like the fancy sort of thing you’d see rich people pretending to eat in a film.

“Oh,” Arthur says. “Look what you’ve done.”

Francis raises his eyebrows, so Arthur adds, “It’s nice.”

The French Alpha smiles. He pulls Arthur’s chair out for him, and because he’s feeling soft and warm, he doesn’t say anything snarky about it. They both sit down, and for the first few minutes they just enjoy the mastery Francis has expressed with the numerous flavors on the plate. Arthur’s not used to so much thought being put into the things that go into his mouth. It’s a whole other way of living, turns out.

“You look cute with your hair down like that,” Francis says. “It makes you look younger.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says. The compliment goes down nice and easy.

Francis’s eyes widen, then he laughs. “You must be feeling good.”

“I’m still pretty asleep,” Arthur replies, which is the easiest way to explain what he’s feeling right now to an Alpha who’ll never experience it.

Their conversation has that lazy, pleasant meander of a bit of chatter, a stretch of chewing punctuated by hums of appreciation, then chatter resumed again with little thought spared for propriety. Arthur finds it remarkably easy to stare at Francis, which is good because his jawline and cheekbones look excellent by candlelight. Francis stares back, but his gaze holds too many emotions to count.

“What did Densen want?” Francis asks finally, in an indifferent manner that of course means he’s invested in the answer.

“It was alright,” Arthur assures him. “He just wanted to apologize and talk about kids.”

Francis arches an eyebrow and Arthur says, “His mate must want them and he doesn’t. He was pretty fussed about it. That’s why they’re fighting.”

“Hmm. Tricky.”

“Yeah.”

Francis purses his lips, but he doesn’t say anything else, just fiddles with his fork.

“Do you want kids?” Arthur asks.

“Yes, I do,” Francis replies earnestly. “One day.”

Arthur nods, unsurprised. “You’d be a good sire.”

Francis smiles. “Merci. You’d be a good dam.”

Arthur glances at him. His old mate didn’t think so, but then, his old mate didn’t think about much other than himself and when he’d get his next fix, be that for cigarettes, drugs, sex. A man of vice, through and through. He wonders where that Alpha is now, if he’s got another Omega to whore out in a squat or if he’s cleaned up and working or if he’s long-dead. Arthur doesn’t care much in any case. He thinks about the pup that never was, and how he’s told himself for so long that he will not have pups, he will not start a family, he will not let himself be hurt again—he’s told himself all of this for so long he can’t tell if he actually believes it or not anymore. Once he’s free of the mindset, will his life actually change? _Would_ he be a good dam? _One day?_

“Adopting,” he says, and takes a drink of water. “That would be better.”

“Yes,” Francis agrees. “It would be good to give a pup a family.”

Arthur trails his fingertip around and around the top of his glass.

Francis’s fork clinks quietly against the plate. “What are we talking about?”

“I don’t know.” Arthur’s lips curl into a lopsided smile, and they both laugh down at their plates.

Just when he’s setting down his utensils on the empty plate, Arthur feels the first wave of heat. The term—popularized by erotica novels, which he used to flip through to the naughty bits when his dam wasn’t looking in a bookshop—is more or less inaccurate. It’s not a big wall of heat crashing down, but more of a surge, like a sort of internal shiver spreading warmth inside him. He feels his cheeks darken and sees Francis’s nostrils flaring as they did earlier, filling with the scent of him.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Francis says immediately. “Out here.”

“No.” He can’t imagine going to bed by himself tonight, but he won’t beg. He’s not that far gone yet. “You don’t have to.”

Francis sets his jaw. “I don’t trust myself. I’ve never had to control myself like that before.”

Arthur meets his gaze, voice dipping to a low rasp. “I’m not asking you to control yourself.”

Francis stares back, and a serious tone alights on them both like a blanket of snow. Francis reaches across the table to touch Arthur’s hand. “This might sound selfish, but . . . I don’t want this to be just a . . . relief. Thing.”

“No,” Arthur agrees, trying not to be distracted by the thumb stroking the back of his hand. “I don’t want that, either.”

“If anyone finds out you’ll be removed from my case,” Francis points out, a last ditch attempt at unsavory sensibility. “And fined. And maybe disbarred.”

Arthur plays with Francis’s fingers. “No one’s going to find out. My lips are sealed.”

Francis gives a smile of surrender. “Mine are sealed, too. Except to you.”

“Your flirting is still bad,” Arthur tells him, and leans over the table to kiss him.

It’s far from perfect: they’re both half-standing to reach each other at opposite ends of the table, and Arthur’s lips are a bit chapped and Francis’s stubble is a bit rough, and Arthur realizes too late he probably has food stuck in his teeth somewhere, but they’ve both just eaten so Francis probably does too, and it’s not like either of them care because they’re still kissing. Arthur has never been kissed so gently before; he never knew so much warmth and feeling could pass through such soft lips and such a shy tongue. It just fills him with the need for more, so he trails his hands down to Francis’s chest and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

Francis pulls back, breathless and slightly wild-eyed. He stands up straight, blows out both candles with one burst of air, and pulls Arthur to him—not to kiss or touch, just to nuzzle into his neck and breathe him in. Arthur wants to feel his teeth, but not here. He grabs his wrist and tugs him into the bedroom.

Inside, Arthur closes the door and pushes Francis back against it, kissing him again. God, he smells good. Arthur nips his bottom lip and gets excited by the growl; Francis nips him back and delights in the squeak. It’s been a long time since Arthur let someone kiss him, for precisely this reason: a good kiss, like this one, is extremely intimate, an outpouring of passion from one mouth to the other. There’s no hiding, no faking, because you can always tell.

So when Arthur feels a sudden _lack_ and realizes there’s no hands on him, he pulls back enough to look at Francis. His face and body language certainly aren’t wanting for lust, so what’s the issue? Arthur pulls Francis’s hands toward him, but Francis resists.

“Do you want me to touch you?” he asks, voice lower than Arthur has ever heard it.

“Obviously,” Arthur replies, tugging again.

It’s a serious brow over those desire-filled eyes. “Tell me, then. Tell me to kiss you.”

And Arthur realizes that, until this point, every sensual touch has been initiated by himself. “Touch me,” he says, moving closer again and guiding Francis’s hands to his waist. Against his lips, Arthur whispers, “Kiss me.”

The French Alpha obeys with gusto, and Arthur discovers just how much he was holding back before. _Bloody hell._ Francis’s lips find every sensitive spot along his jaw, under his chin, across his throat, and his hands only stop caressing his waist to squeeze his thighs. And again, the unstoppable shuddering need for _more._

Neither are sure who starts it, but it only takes them two steps before they topple onto the bed, shedding clothes as they fall. They grind together, Francis’s movements slippery almost, flowing, graceful. Arthur doesn’t want graceful, he wants carnal. The heat demands it. So, listening to the hum and howl of these old instincts, Arthur pushes Francis off of him and assumes lordosis: all fours, head down, back arched. Presenting for his Alpha.

Nothing happens.

“Fuck me,” Arthur says, in case Francis has forgotten the goal of this exercise. He looks over his shoulder to see Francis sitting on the edge of the bed, briefs tented, brow furrowed.

“That’s not what I want from you,” he says, still with that lusty rumble.

Arthur blushes now. He’s got enough inhibitions left to feel sheepish at what he’s about to do, but he wants it too much to let that foolishness get in the way. He wants it, Francis wants it. He won’t keep it from them.

He rolls onto his back and, meeting Francis’s gaze, says, “Make love to me.”

Francis smiles, but it’s just a quick flash before hunger overcomes him and he straddles Arthur. There’s the obligatory fumbling with the condom wrapper, then Arthur cinches his thighs around Francis’s waist and they both go still when Francis slips inside, almost by accident; everything is slicked enough that there’s no resistance, just a _gasp_ and they’re together, so close it’s unbelievable. Arthur’s eyes close at the bliss of it, but when he opens them he finds panic on Francis’s face above him.

“What?” Arthur says, hands on Francis’s heaving sides.

The French Alpha swallows hard. “I don’t . . . I’ve never . . .”

Suddenly, in the manner of a drunkard getting a moment of sobriety, Arthur’s stream of thoughts and longings screeches to a halt. “You’re a virgin?”

Francis lets his forehead fall against Arthur’s chest. “Oh, God. I don’t want to ruin this—”

“Shhh.” Arthur strokes his hair, tucking it behind his ears. “Relax. Just do what feels good.” He can’t believe someone who kisses so well has never had sex, but he remembers Francis’s claim of not mating before pair-bonding. Is he special? Is that what this means? “Not rocket science.”

Francis only moves half an inch before he’s frozen again. “Arthur—”

 _“Francis.”_ Arthur grabs his chin. “If you’re going to come, then do that. The sooner you do, the sooner round two starts.”

He watches the reality of what Francis signed up for sink in: a week of nothing but sex and food. Finally, he starts to thrust like he means it, and Arthur lets his head sink back into the pillows while Francis sucks and nips at his throat. They last longer than Arthur thought they would, and soon enough they’re at it again, then again, until they collapse in each other’s arms, Francis completely spent and Arthur, for now, joining him in exhaustion.

“Je t’aime,” the Alpha says, a mumble that barely escapes his mouth.

Arthur nuzzles into his hair so he breathes nothing but Francis. _I love you._ Francis is already snoring, and Arthur has the vague inkling that this will lead into a discussion he won’t wholly enjoy, so just thinking it is enough.

For now.

* * *

Lukas has been staying at Emil’s apartment for the past week, but tonight—at Mikkel’s texted request—Lukas returns with his bags in tow. Mikkel is a bit surprised at that level of trust, and heartened too; this must mean Lukas is willing to accept whatever apology Mikkel might offer, right? Or is he just doing it to show Mikkel what he could be about to lose?

They stand in the kitchen, fittingly. Mikkel pumped himself up when he saw Lukas’s car coming up the driveway, but he’s back to feeling nervous now that his mate is here with those dark eyes and crossed arms. As a lawyer, Mikkel has no trouble memorizing a speech. This has to be at once a good opening and closing argument. And not only does it have to be honest—he has that part covered, provided he can get the words out—but Lukas has to _believe_ that it’s honest.

“I want to start,” Mikkel announces, “by saying I’m sorry.”

Lukas waits a moment, then says, “I’ll need some more details along with that.”

“I’m sorry for fighting with you,” Mikkel says. “And making you feel shitty for wanting pups. And not telling you how I feel.” _I hope you know what you’re talking about, Kirkland._

Sure enough, Lukas unfolds his arms, opening up like a flower. “How do you feel?”

Mikkel takes a deep breath. He can do this. What is he, weak? These are just feelings, goddamn it, and hiding from them won’t make them go away. He has to face them!

“I feel inferior, like you said,” he admits, head hanging a bit. “Because you’re making a pup with someone else. And I feel . . .” _Get it out, Densen, for God’s sake._ “. . . sad, because having pups means we’re not young anymore. And it’s a huge change.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I guess I’m scared we’ll regret it and get stuck with it. And I don’t want us to resent each other. Because I love you.”

Mikkel’s not sure if he’s supposed to be in tears at this point, and he honestly doubts any will come. He’s never been a crier, even on the rare occasion he actually wanted to, like when his sire died, or when he got the news he would never be able to be a sire himself. Still, laying himself out like this feels . . . not bad. He doesn’t mind being vulnerable, if it’s with Lukas. He trusts him, has always trusted him.

Lukas steps over to him and reaches up to cup his face. “We’ve always been happy, even though we’re getting older,” he says gently. “We’ll do it together, like we do everything. I don’t want you to shut me out, Mick. When you feel bad about these things, tell me. Otherwise, it’ll eat you.”

 _Eat you._ Lips and teeth flash in his mind, a different hand on a different face. He feels the burn of adrenaline as if he actually had dodged a bullet. “I’m sorry I’m such an asshole,” he mumbles against Lukas’s palm. “I don’t mean to be.”

“I know you don’t.” Lukas smooths some jagged strands back from Mikkel’s forehead. “And you aren’t an asshole. You have your moments,” he allows, amused, “but we all do, so you’re excused.”

“I almost made a big mistake, though,” Mikkel says, a bit reluctant. He wasn’t going to say this, in his original plans, but the reminder of foul truths eating him alive from the inside out—best to put all his cards on the table. Besides, a lie of omission is still a lie, even if he is a defense attorney.

Mercifully, Lukas just smiles. “But you didn’t?”

“No,” Mikkel replies with relief. “I didn’t do anything but act like a dick.”

“I’ll forgive that.” Lukas hooks his finger into the collar of Mikkel’s shirt. “So long as you apologize to whomever you were a dick to.”

“Way ahead of you, kære.” Mikkel lets himself be pulled down into kissing range, but hesitates, which takes some real self-control when it’s been a whole week since he kissed those perfect lips. “But what about the pup situation?”

Lukas regards him with faint but genuine warmth. “I think we should wait another year.”

Mikkel perks up. “You do?”

His mate nods. “I think it’s a good idea. You’re right, it is a big change, and we have a lot of thinking to do about scheduling and room plans and what sort of parents we’d like to be. And a lot can change in a year. You’re still very invested in the firm, but once Arthur is promoted and you’ve started grooming him to take your place, I think you’ll feel a lot more comfortable with the idea of slowing down.”

As it always has, the future sounds so much more attainable in his mate’s steady voice. _Whatever you want, my love, I’ll do it for you._ He’s never wanted that pledge to be false, and he so hopes he can keep it true. He slips his arms around Lukas’s waist, smiling down at him. “That sounds good to me.”

“I’m glad.” Lukas kisses him and slips the words between his lips: “Now show me how much you missed me.”

They make good use of the gorgeous black marble.


	14. All is Bright

Francis never realized how much sex a heat week entails. It’s one of those things everyone jokes about, a fact of life no one ever really considers seriously. He had a rather pathetic sex ed unit in high school health class—the basic stages of the estrus cycle, how to put on a condom, the assurance that masturbation is perfectly natural—and it definitely didn’t go into specifics beyond _heat is the time when the Omega’s body is ready to reproduce._ No mention of how insatiably horny they get, or how intoxicating they smell, or how the whole world narrows to rotate around protecting and pleasing those bright green eyes, tender pink lips, soft freckled cheeks.

By the end of the first day, he loses all modesty and embarrassment in front of Arthur. By the end of the second, he knows every inch of his skin, every sensitive nook and gorgeous cranny. By the third, he considers himself an expert in heat relief services.

Arthur rarely leaves the nest, but Francis journeys to and fro to bring refreshments between bouts of love-making. Mostly for himself; Arthur turns his face away from all offered food, though he accepts the occasional sip of water and takes his pills at Francis’s insistence. He doesn’t say much during the three days of full-on heat, though he watches Francis with the same canny gaze as usual, often softened by fondness or amusement. He seems boneless most of the time, lying sprawled among tangled blankets, awash in the musk of heat, skin shiny with sweat and slick, and those lazy green eyes never leaving Francis. Francis stopped a foot from the bed once, tilting his head. “You look like a cat, Arthur.” The Omega only confirmed this observation with a luxurious stretch that had Francis straddling him once more, eager to resume worshipping his warm, _warm_ body.

Now, on the fourth day, the heat has packed its bags. Francis is admittedly a bit glad to see Arthur push himself out of bed and stumble off to have a shower; going from zero to a hundred sex-wise has been, to put it bluntly, exhausting. Exhilarating and titillating, very, but draining. He’s pretty sure at least five muscles have been pulled, not to mention the pair of hickeys on his collar bone (“I thought I was the one doing the biting!”). He’s definitely done more exercise the past few days than he has in the past few months, so he’s more than pleased when—once they’ve both showered, changed the bedsheets, and gotten themselves some toast—Arthur sighs and rests his head on Francis’s shoulder, eyes closed.

“Let’s relax today,” Francis murmurs, twining their fingers. “I think we’ve earned a little recuperation.”

“We?” Arthur opens one eye, dubious.

“Yes, we.” Francis allows Arthur the slight smirk at his own expense— _oui oui_ , the height of comedy in second grade—then pokes his nose with his free hand. “I did a lot of the work, if you’ll recall.”

Arthur bites at his finger.

“Mm, and you call Alphas animals.” Francis shakes his head, tutting. “Now the truth comes out. It’s Omegas who are the savages.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything, just closes his eyes again. He doesn’t seem upset, but he doesn’t seem very light-hearted, either. In the back of his mind throughout the heat week, Francis has been anticipating this. He knew as soon as he told Arthur he loved him—which he has yet to repeat since that first time, and Arthur has yet to say it once—he was starting something, and not just the fluffy pink thing most people were starting when they said three special words. He knows relationships in general do not come naturally to Arthur, and to be perfectly honest, they don’t to Francis, either—he’s just a lot better at encouraging others to like him and himself to like others. _We both fear rejection,_ he thought one night while holding a dozing Arthur, _we just protect ourselves in different ways._ Francis panders, the submissive wolf licking beneath jaws and rolling over to bare his belly, while Arthur bristles, snapping and snarling at all who come near. It’s a sound defense mechanism—he can’t be rejected if he does the rejecting first—except for the inevitable loneliness.

 _But he likes me enough to let me in. Or was I just a matter of convenience?_ Francis so, so hopes it’s the former. But hoping won’t do much for him; there’s only one way to put his mind to rest.

“I think we should talk,” he says quietly, stroking Arthur’s thumb with his own.

“I think so, too.” But the eyes stay closed. If it’s easier for him to open up this way, Francis won’t object.

Neither of them say anything for a long moment. Francis isn’t sure if Arthur is gathering his words or waiting for Francis to start the conversation, but if he stays silent any longer he’s certain they’ll talk on top of each other, so he just asks the question weighing most heavily on him:

“Are we mates now?”

Quiet. Arthur breathes. Francis does too, barely.

Softly, Arthur asks, “Do you want to be?”

Francis takes a moment to marvel at this, a vulnerable inquiry from an Omega wearing nothing but one of Francis’s larger sweaters who three weeks ago could barely tolerate living with himself let alone someone else. He’s hit in the face with a sudden feeling: gratitude, that this happened. It’s ludicrous, but there is a tiny part of him glad to be put into this situation. How else would he have gotten so close to Arthur? He can’t imagine the track he was previously on ever leading to sharing a bed with his nemesis—and even if he did, it would never turn into a relationship. Arthur would have him and be done with him, like every other Alpha he’s been with . . . until now. This is different. This is meaningful. _Right?_

“Yes,” Francis replies. “I do.”

And it’s true. Does he want to spend the foreseeable future with this Omega? Keeping each other happy and safe? Fighting tooth and nail? Making love the same way? So many conversations left for them to have, so many words to toss and chew on together. So many ways to make each other laugh. _But pair-bonding. But pups._ Nagging thoughts in the back of his mind. They can stay there, for now.

Arthur’s voice is even smaller now, as if the truth is more bearable the harder it is to hear. “I do, too.”

There’s a delay to the warmth spreading through Francis, like his heart doesn’t quite believe it at first. Someone wants him. Someone like _Arthur Kirkland_ wants him. It’s probably an inappropriate thought, but that feels like even more of an achievement. An Omega as independent as Arthur is willing to settle down with Francis. Validation, sweet as honey.

“Does this mean you want to . . .” He regrets the pause, it makes the words even weightier than they already were. “Pair-bond?”

Arthur stiffens, just a little. Francis fights the urge to leap in with allowances: _We don’t have to, I don’t mind, it’s okay, forget I said anything._ It’s frightening to have a spine, but he tries his best. If Arthur can stand up for himself, so can he.

“It’s a little soon for that,” Arthur mumbles, at last opening his eyes to gauge Francis’s reaction. “Don’t you think?”

That’s an excellent question. In their parents’ day, it isn’t too soon at all. There are still plenty of couples out there who don’t mate until after the pair-bonding ceremony. And, for that matter, there are an increasing amount of couples who don’t bother going to the trouble of making their bond official. The animalistic days of claiming bites and shunning widows are over. Yes, if Francis thinks about the other Alphas in Arthur’s past long enough he’ll grind his teeth in jealousy, but the fact that they mated him doesn’t make Arthur less desirable. Some Alphas still think that way, would—and have—shamed Arthur for being _sloppy seconds._ But Francis has been as far as third base before, and no one will shame him for that, so he thinks the double-standard is best left behind.

But Francis has always just assumed he would one day be pair-bonded to someone. He loves weddings, the grandeur and indulgence and beauty of them. And he loves that it’s a promise, an assurance that no matter what, nothing but death will do them part. And . . . well, old-fashioned as it is, he likes to imagine someone taking his name, having a piece of him with them always. And pups, little Bonnefoy children with blond curls and green eyes—but he’s getting ahead of himself.

“There’s no rush,” Francis says. “I don’t want you to feel pressured into anything. But if you were interested in pair-bonding, I would be, too.”

Arthur observes him a moment, thoughtful in a slightly guarded way, then nods, resting his head against his shoulder again. “Let’s wait until this is all over to make decisions about the future.”

Francis can’t believe it, but he’d forgotten that he still has a life outside of this flat, an uncertain fate still waiting for him in that courthouse. It all seemed so far away, but Christmas is in four days and the trial is only five after that. There is a very real possibility that Francis will end up in prison for five or seven or ten years. Would Arthur wait for him? Or would he find someone else, now that his heart has been prised open and most of his ice has melted? And would his mindset stay the same, or would he consider the conviction proof that Francis truly is guilty?

“I want to be with you.” Francis closes his own eyes, nuzzles into Arthur’s hair. Lilacs; he used Francis’s shampoo. “That’s all.”

Arthur gives his hand a little squeeze. “I know.” He hooks his ankle around Francis’s. “I’ll do my best to make that happen.”

Francis sneaks a kiss to Arthur’s temple. He has a feeling this time next week the Omega will no longer be quite so cuddly, so he’ll get in as many loving touches and sweet nothings as possible. “I trust you, mon amour.”

Arthur is quiet long enough that Francis expects him to slump forward, asleep. Then he says, “Can you do me a favor?”

“Anything.” Francis lifts their clasped hands to kiss each of Arthur’s knuckles. He vaguely hopes it won’t be anything sexual. _One day off, that’s all I ask._

Arthur shifts so he can sink into the pillows, wincing as he does. “Go fetch me the hot water bottle, would you? It’s in one of the drawers.”

Francis recalls another line from health class— _some Omegas get cramps during the final days of their heat_ _while their uterus reabsorbs its lining_ —and gives him a sympathetic smile. “Of course.”

When he returns with the heated bottle, they snuggle up together again. “I can’t believe you haven’t said anything about me being a virgin,” Francis remarks, amused.

Arthur arches an eyebrow a bit. “What do you want me to say? I’m honored?”

This gives Francis a bit of pause, to think that this is where Arthur’s mind went first. Still surprising him. “I was thinking you might mock me for it. Being prudish or old-fashioned.”

Arthur rests his cheek over Francis’s heart. “I won’t mock your virginity so long as you don’t mock my tattoo.”

Francis chuckles, sliding one of his hands down to caress Arthur’s thigh. “I kind of like it. It’s unique.”

“You don’t need to flirt anymore.” Arthur settles in, sighs softly. “You tamed the beast.”

Francis sighs too, letting happiness outshine the worries inside him. It’s true; the latent fear of _what if I die alone_ has been extinguished. He has an Omega in his arms. He’s wanted, and—even though Arthur hasn’t come right out and said it—he’s loved.

He gives the top of Arthur’s head one last kiss before they both doze off.

* * *

**Hey this is Alfred, the guy from the eye doctor**

**idk if you remember.** **Anyway hope ur appointment**

**went well :)**

**Hello Alfred. Yes, I do remember.**

**I have a stronger prescription now.**

**Aww :(**

**But other than that it went well.**

**Cool**

**So are you like busy rn or**

**Rn?**

***right now**

**Oh. No, I’m not busy. Why?**

**I just wondered if ur open to some chatting.**

**No pressure ;)**

**What do you want to chat about?**

**Oh just little things. Government secrets,**

**ur deepest fears, best casserole recipe**

**I don’t eat a lot of casserole**

**What do you like to eat then?**

**I’ve been on a protein shake**

**diet the past two weeks.**

**You can’t eat?**

**No, just drink.**

**It’s sort of like a cleanse.**

**Damn dude. No wonder ur so big**

**Like bulky I mean. Ur swole**

**Is that a good thing?**

**Yeah it’s sexy**

**Sorry did I scare you away ignore that**

**No I’m just a little distracted.**

**Thank you**

**Anytime bro. Hey got decorations**

**up for Christmas?**

**Just a few. I have a wreath from the church.**

**I don’t really decorate for holidays.**

**How old are you btw?**

**Twenty-six. Why?**

**Just wondering. Ur a lot more mature**

**than I am. Not a bad thing. My bff is more**

**mature than me too. You kinda remind me**

**of him, just more polite.**

**Thank you. I think.**

**I’m not annoying u, am I?**

**No, you’re not annoying me.**

**I’m enjoying our chatting.**

**Aww great :D**

**You like movies?**

**Depends what kind of movie.**

**Ones with explosions**

**and guns and badasses.**

**Yes I like those**

**Awesome you wanna go see one?**

**When?**

**Lemme check the screening times :)**

**OK.**

**:)**

* * *

Francis puts the gearshift into park and turns to look at him. “Oh, it wasn’t that bad, was it?”

Arthur raises his eyebrows, finally releasing his oh-shit grasp on the door handle. _So much for avoiding roller coasters._ “Are you familiar with the concept of a shoulder check?”

“There was nothing there,” Francis protests. “I looked in the mirrors.”

Arthur shakes his head. “I’m driving us home. We’ve used up all of our luck today. No need to tempt fate.”

Francis pouts teasingly at him, then they’re climbing out of the warm car and into the snowy wind. A particularly moody gust blows all of Francis’s hair into his face, and Arthur stifles laughter at the sheepdog look it gives him. They hold hands across the parking lot—Arthur’s justification is Francis’s compromised vision and their shared lack of gloves in the chill—and only when they’re sighing at the relief of the heated air of the mall interior do they release each other. Francis finger-combs his hair back into place and Arthur folds down the collar of his overcoat. The place is overrun compared to the last time they were here, complete with an Alpha playing Santa for the pups and endless anxious parents searching for whatever new toy will make their spoiled children love them.

“You have your cynical face on,” Francis remarks, albeit fondly. “Is it the music?”

Naturally, the PA system is broadcasting holiday jingles overhead. “Mm. Doesn’t it make you want to spend money you don’t have?” But really, he doesn’t mind most of the songs. The only good memories he has of his childhood churchgoing are during Christmastide, when they all stayed late to sing carols and eat warm apple crumble. It was easier to pretend he felt loved when everyone was being generous and welcoming. Now, the music dips him into a bittersweet pool of nostalgia, but before the sadness can soak into his heart a thought occurs to him: _But I am loved._

He glances at Francis, who smiles automatically when he notices the attention. Arthur gives him half a smile in response. This felt real when they were rolling around in a heat nest, but now, juxtaposed against the lives of other people—it’s jarring, but in a good way. Like _yes, this is what my life can be,_ again and again until it almost starts to feel normal.

They’ve come for the obvious Christmas shopping, something Arthur hasn’t done since he left home the first time, and even then there was no extravagance. Brothers exchanging the same pack of last-minute socks and their dam giving them all a new itchy sweater, that was about the height of it. Now he has more money than he bothered fantasizing about back then, but he has no idea what to do with it.

“Let’s look for something for Alfred first,” Francis suggests.

“What are we going to get him?”

Francis gives him a gently scolding look. “Well, you’re supposed to know that. You’ve known him a lot longer than I have. What does he like?”

“Food,” Arthur replies. Francis raises an eyebrow, so he adds, “Sex.”

“Arthur.”

“What? You asked what he likes.”

“You know what I mean. Does he have hobbies? Does he collect anything?”

Arthur struggles to think. They don’t really talk about things like hobbies. Friend or not, for the most part Arthur kept their conversations centered around work, and anything outside that usually happened after alcohol was involved. He knows Alfred likes dogs because if they pass one in the street the Alpha always greets it with a smile or a stroke— _howdy, woof!_ —but they can’t exactly get him a puppy. A statuette of one, maybe? That seems rather juvenile though, doesn’t it? Like something a child would get for their grandam. Alfred has never gotten Arthur anything beyond a few joke gifts, like a shirt designed to look like an ugly sweater ( _that’s the joke_ ).

“Perhaps we’re not the gift-giving sort,” he suggests uncertainly.

“Anyone can give someone a present,” Francis declares. “It shows how much you appreciate him.”

“Oh, well in that case—”

_“Arthur.”_

He can’t help but laugh at the Alpha’s fervor. “I didn’t even say anything.”

“You were about to say _let’s just go home_ or something along those lines.” Francis leans in close enough to nip at his ear. “I’m onto you.”

Arthur pushes him to arm’s length, but not hard enough to offend. “Don’t get too cocky. That’s even more insufferable than simpering.”

Francis scoffs, but not hard enough to offend. “And people say the French are fussy.”

They share a smirk, and Arthur pretends not to notice that they’re holding hands again as they wander in and out of shops. They end up in a clothing store, the sort that takes up so much space it has multiple entryways. It’s far from Arthur’s style—painted concrete floors and mannequins in sunglasses holding skateboards—but it seems like the sort of place Alfred would shop for clothes. They go past the front displays of paper-thin fleece jackets and over-priced boots to find the non-winter clothes toward the back.

“Have you noticed,” Francis says, leafing through a rack of T-shirts, “that he sort of dresses like a middle-aged sire?”

Arthur nods. “He wears the clothes of a fifty-year-old and a five-year-old and nothing in between.” He thought he would hate this, but it turns out shopping for someone else’s clothes isn’t as irritating as shopping for himself. He’s reached the point in his life where he just wears a suit to work and some color variation of the same sweater-vest-and-slacks everywhere else. But this is rather like dressing up a doll—which, yes, he did enjoy doing as a pup and he might even admit it under sufferance—with the added challenge that the doll has a personality which must sync up with the clothing.

Francis lets out a burst of laughter and holds up a grey shirt. “This is pretty terrible.”

Arthur reads it over, then snatches it from Francis’s hands. “We have to get it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.” He narrows his eyes. “I’ve known him a lot longer than you have, if you recall.”

Francis hums indulgently. “Mmhm. Alright. Do you want to get him anything else?”

Arthur’s sense of victory is stalled by this question. “. . . Chocolates?”

The Alpha— _his_ Alpha, how long it’s been since he could think that—grins. “Chocolates.”

So they end up again in the chocolate shop where they shared truffles during their first mall excursion. It smells lovelier this time, for some reason; perhaps the world is sweeter now that Francis has taken much of the sourness from Arthur. Everything is red ribbons and gold boxes, an aesthetic that charms both of them though Francis of course is the only one clasping hands and sighing whimsically. A box of assorted milk chocolates for Alfred, a wee bag of truffles for the pair, and Francis holds up another box, this one silver.

“White chocolates?” Arthur reads aloud. “For who?”

“Emil,” Francis replies. “He got a white chocolate brownie at the cafe. You don’t remember?”

“I wasn’t exactly in a remembering mood,” Arthur points out, reluctant to admit he probably wouldn’t have remembered anyway. His mind regards dessert choices as irrelevant information, but apparently they should be stowed away to aid Christmas shopping. Is this the secret to being a nice person? Noticing and remembering the tiniest details about the people around you? That sounds like an awful lot of work. “I just get him a gift card every other year.”

“Well,” Francis says, smiling as he takes the other chocolates from Arthur’s hands, “this year is different.”

To that end, Arthur doesn’t roll his eyes about Francis carrying the bags, and every time Francis gives him a warm glance Arthur returns it, and when a large Alpha hurries past paying attention only to his phone Arthur presses against Francis’s side to avoid collision and to absorb some comfort from the touch. Francis slips his free hand around Arthur’s waist, at once claiming and consoling. This time when Francis smiles Arthur doesn’t manage a mimicry.

Perhaps he’s still too cynical, but Arthur keeps waiting for this rug of happiness to be yanked from beneath his feet.

* * *

“Isi! I want a puppy!”

Tino smiles kindly and steers little Peter away from the pet store doorway. “Next time we come, we’ll look at the puppies,” he says. “This time we have to find something for Papa.”

Thankfully, Peter doesn’t have much in the way of an attention span so he doesn’t build to a tantrum. Tino and Berwald both agree that pets are a staple of growing up—and indeed of life in general—but they also think it’s best to wait until Peter is a tad older before they invest in a puppy. Old enough to respect boundaries and take some responsibility for the feeding and grooming, a good lesson as far as Berwald is concerned. It’s a good thing Tino is the one shopping with Peter today; sometimes Tino thinks his big stoic mate has a harder time resisting Peter’s baby blue eyes than he does.

When Peter was a toddler Tino got the Christmas shopping done before December even started. He misses the days when he could plop him in a baby sling and only pause for feeding and changing. Now that Peter does most of his own walking and has an infinite amount of questions constantly vying for Tino’s attention ( _why can’t penguins fly? how come cars only have four wheels? why is the wind blew and not green?_ ) it’s a lot harder to get anything strictly productive done. They’re later than Tino would prefer with this shopping trip, but at least the bulk of the shopping—presents for Peter to meet the Santa quota established in previous years—is already finished. Tino plans to enlist Peter for the wrapping of any family member gifts they buy today; what may seem messy and rushed from Tino will be positively endearing from Peter.

“Oh, aren’t these poinsettias pretty?” Tino says, touching a soft red petal.

“How come they’re red?” Peter says, his little hand a bit rougher than Tino would like on the delicate stems.

“Gently, nappi,” Tino admonishes. “I don’t know what makes them red, they just are that way. And isn’t it nice? Let’s get one for the kitchen, your papa likes flowers too.”

“Papa likes flowers?”

“Yes, he does. Alphas can like flowers,” Tino adds, pinching Peter’s chubby cheek when the wee face remains dubious. “What do they tell you about Alphas and Omegas at school?”

“They’re the same,” Peter says with the singsong tone that evokes a whole classroom of squeaky voices.

“That’s right.” There are some parents, Tino knows, who dislike the things their pups learn in the elementary school, but Tino and Berwald want their pup to grow up without gender roles and prejudice. Perhaps it’s because they have a fairly traditional lifestyle—working Alpha and housedam Omega—that they want Peter to be exposed to all different ways of living. One of Peter’s best friends has two dams, in fact, something that would never have been so matter-of-fact in Tino and Berwald’s day. Tino finds it refreshing. After all, what fun is a world where everyone carves the same path?

Tino takes a moment to inspect the display of poinsettias, then chooses one and puts it in his cart. “Alright, now we’ll—” He turns one way, then another, heart starting to race. “Peter?”

* * *

 _“No peeking,”_ Francis says, moving a new bag out of view. He’s amassed several by now.

Arthur arches an eyebrow. “Who’s that one for?”

“It’s a secret.”

“Right. Which is why you made me wait in the appliances section for ten minutes.”

“Chut,” Francis says, with a grin playing at his lips—then abruptly looks past Arthur with surprise. “Hello there.”

Arthur turns. A young pup stands there, peering up at them. Blond hair and blue eyes; Arthur feels a peculiar sensation, like the illusion of fractured time, and wonders if this is what Francis looked like when he was a pup. Curlier hair, probably, and maybe less of the round head. It’s hard to imagine Francis without the elegance and cheekbones. And the stubble, Arthur is nearly certain he didn’t have the stubble as a child.

Francis is smiling now. “Are you here with your parents, petit?”

The pup nods. “My isi.”

Arthur and Francis exchange a puzzled glance.

“Okay,” Francis says, with the nurturing sort of tone Arthur would expect to hear from a preschool teacher. “Do you know where he is?”

The pup nods. “With the piñatas.”

Arthur and Francis exchange another glance.

Francis offers a hand. “Can you show us where? I’m sure he’s wondering where you’ve gone.”

The pup considers the welcoming posture of the French Alpha, then looks briefly at Arthur. He doesn’t know what’s best here, a smile maybe? He tries one, but it feels wrong on his face, like he suddenly has too many teeth. Children can smell fear, can’t they?

Fortunately, the pup decides to ignore him and accept the offered French fingers. Arthur follows behind the pair of them and listens to their conversation, a wandering sort of chatter about the pup’s name—Peter—and his favorite color—blue—and what he wants for Christmas—a puppy—and Arthur can’t stop marvelling at how easy it is. Francis is an only child, how does he know how pups work? All at once, Arthur gets that time-fracture feeling again, but this time he’s watching the pair of them standing there, holding hands like sire and son, and he’s amazed by how _possible_ that is, Francis and a little human with his papa’s beautiful blue eyes.

 _Steady on._ One thing at a time. Christmas first, potential reproduction later.

“Oh—!” A trolley narrowly avoids plowing Arthur down and the Omega pushing it looks at him with wide violet eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you—Peter!”

Francis releases the pup, who is lifted up into his dam’s arms and covered in relieved kisses. Then, quick as they started, they stop and the Omega narrows stern eyes. “Peter, you cannot wander off like that. You could get lost, and you could get hurt. Promise you won’t wander anymore.”

“Promise,” Peter says, and holds up a finger for a pinkie swear.

His dam curls their fingers together tightly. “There, now it’s official.” Then he lifts his gaze to Arthur and Francis with a grateful smile, but his words drop back into his throat when he recognizes Francis from the evening news. Francis’s face falls, recognizing the recognition, but Tino only gives a gentle smile. “Thank you for being kind to him.”

Francis returns the smile, and Arthur says, “Give my regards to Berwald.”

Tino nods. “I will.” He waves, and Peter follows suit. “Happy holidays.”

“Merry Christmas!” Peter cries, significantly louder than necessary.

“Merry Christmas,” Francis says, with a tiny wave. Arthur nods to Tino, at once respectful and grateful.

The quartet parts in half, walking in opposite directions, each with a different sort of spring in his step and happiness in his heart.

* * *

It’s a white Christmas this year. Antonio prefers the pure white to the brown of dead grass, but pragmatically the latter is preferable. He’s not very good at driving in the snow, because he drives fast and that’s not advisable on slippery surfaces. Also, snow is cold, and he would prefer the world to remain at least twenty degrees above zero at all times. But it does make him feel festive as he drives to the church, the evening made of softly falling flakes and Christmas lights and warm golden living room windows. Everyone who isn’t going to the Christmas Eve service is snuggled up on the sofa, watching holiday classics. It’s what Antonio would be doing any other year. _Happy thoughts, Toni._ There are two wrapped packages sitting on the passenger seat, one tag reading _For Feliciano_ and the other _For Lovino._ Both are the same fancy tin of Belgian chocolates. He wasn’t sure how much he should spend on the Omegas, but you can never go wrong with chocolate. These are fancier than the ones he’d get for himself and barely taste while he mindlessly shoved them into his mouth between bouts of laughter with Francis and Gilbert, eggnog and rum making all three of them silly.

_Happy thoughts._

The parking lot is full and the streets are lined, so Antonio has to do another lap of the square. He ends up farther away than he’d like, but there’s something lovely about it: the crunch of snow under his shoes, the gusts of his breath clouding the air, his shadow bounding ahead of to leap between the pale pools of the streetlights. Snow dusts his hair, but he doesn’t brush it away. It’s a night that makes him feel so alive, a night the air crowds against his skin, vitality dancing all around him. It’s hard to be sad on a night like tonight—especially when he knows so many people are happy, and every radio is playing songs that make him so want to be happy—but he can feel sadness tugging on him.

_I’m stuck. SOS. Help me._

In fact, he’s doing just what he’s been time and time again advised against. He’s gone too fast on unsure footing, and now he has no choice but to turn into the skid and pray. Fitting, then, that he’s on his way to church.

But:

_Happy thoughts._

The church is decorated in an elegantly rustic sort of way, all pine wreaths and spruce boughs and holly berries. There’s a Christmas tree in the little entrance area, adorned with charming paper chains and other things the pups have made the past few weeks in Sunday school. Beneath it, there is a collection of presents yet to be wrapped, toys and clothes donated by members of the congregation for children of impoverished families. Antonio wishes he’d thought to bring something to add in there, then feels an extra layer of guilt because he’s never donated to it before; he only thinks of it now because he’s looking at it. _Out of sight, out of mind._

He hears the background chatter suddenly hush, so he hurries into the nave and finds a seat toward the back. He’s barely seated before Roma is asking them all to stand for the opening hymn, except this time it’s not a hymn but a carol.

 

_Silent night, holy night_

 

For just a second, Antonio is reluctant to join in, worried his voice will be too loud or too stark against the chilling singular voice already singing—but then he joins for the second verse, and he can’t even hear himself, just _feels_ that he is part of this melding of Alpha and Omega, young and old, joyful and mournful.

 

_All is calm, all is bright_

 

A distraction: movement, on the far side of the church. Someone has turned his back on Roma and is making his way quickly back to the entryway, head ducked as if to hide his face. With a jolt, Antonio realizes it’s not someone. It’s Lovino, abandoning his brother at the front row and vanishing from view.

It feels disrespectful to leave, not just to Roma but also to the pack instincts singing inside him, and there is a good chance Lovino just wants to be alone right now, but it doesn’t matter. Antonio has to go after him, if only to see where he’s gone.

The chapel, as it turns out. It’s tiny; no pews, just padded chairs in front of a small raised platform adorned with the cross and a vase of white roses and baby’s-breath on either side. Lovino sits in one of the chairs, hunched over, head in his hands, whimpering.

“Lovi,” Antonio murmurs. “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t startle. Slowly, Lovino sits up, sniffles, and looks over his shoulder. He looks most like his brother now, with reddened eyes and wet stripes glinting on his cheeks. It seems Antonio isn’t the only one having unhappy thoughts tonight.

“Do you want me to stay?” Antonio says, praying that he does.

Lovino nods, and Antonio walks over to sit in the chair beside him. Antonio holds his arms open and Lovino leans into him, resting his head on Antonio’s shoulder. They embrace like this, over the arms of the chairs, and listen to the muffled singing.

 

_Holy infant so tender and mild_

 

Lovino mumbles something, and Antonio spends as long as he dares trying to figure out what it was, but he fails to translate it into meaningful English and so has to ask: “What did you say?”

“I ruin everything,” Lovino rasps, with a dangerous amount of acid that doesn’t burn Antonio; it’s turned inward, eating Lovino alive.

“That’s not true,” Antonio protests. “You—”

“My own parents didn’t want me,” Lovino snaps, sitting up enough to glare at Antonio. But again, the fire doesn’t extend beyond the tormented Omega. It’s not anger, anyway, but despair so jagged it slices all that brushes against it. “They left.”

Antonio can see where he’s going with this and cups his face—such soft cheeks, you’d never expect them to be so soft when Lovino carries himself like a hard untouchable thing—to wipe tears away with his thumb. “There is nothing you could do,” Antonio says, looking into Lovino’s eyes, “that would make me leave you.”

A sudden sharp emotion rises in the hazel eyes—shock or doubt or regret—before they search Antonio’s face. “Promise?”

Antonio nods, smiling lightly. “I promise.”

After all of this, they have both reached the point where they need a moment to only take what they want without worry for implications or consequence. Lovino nuzzles into his neck and Antonio kisses his temple. Lovino closes his eyes, and as Antonio’s ears tune back into the congregation’s singing, he closes his own with a sigh.

 

_Sleep in heavenly peace_

* * *

Gilbert paces to and fro in his bedroom, listening to the muffled hiss of the shower through the wall. Matthew is in there, _naked_ in Gilbert’s house. _He’s always naked, under his clothes._ But this feels like standing on a cliff. This isn’t just temptation, this is actual possibility politely clearing its throat to let him know it’s there.

They’ve spent half of the day together already. Gilbert went to Iris House this afternoon, as they’d planned, but Matthew surprised him by coming out with a bag in hand. “Hi!” he said, with an ear-to-ear grin. “I have good news. I asked the matron if we could stay together tonight and he said yes!” Gilbert raised his eyebrows. “Really?” It’s common knowledge that the Omegas of the shelter are not allowed to stay with Alphas part-time because their beds could be taken up by Omegas who need them every night. Matthew ducked his chin a little, sheepish. “Well, he thinks I’m staying at the parsonage. I might have told him I made friends with Feli. Which is true!” Gilbert could only laugh and think, _Merry Christmas to me._

But there’s none of that comfortable confidence now. They’ve made a small snowman on the front lawn, complete with a little mug sitting beneath his downward-reaching branch arm. ( _For beer,_ Matthew said. _He’s German._ Of course.) They’ve had their hot chocolate and their dinner and their couch snuggles. They’ve watched all the Christmas movies Matthew could think of, including the old stop-motion one that Gilbert has always secretly found creepy. Now they’re getting ready for bed. They’re going to sleep together. In the same bed.

“Are you sure?” Gilbert asked, not twenty minutes ago. “We don’t have to. You can have the master and I’ll take one of the—”

“Gil.” A reassuring, fondly teasing smile. “I’m sure.”

Self-control. Gilbert knows he has it, plenty of it. He’s been around—and touched, in some cases—Omegas in heat several times and controlled his impulses without too much struggle. Matthew’s in normal states now, but he still smells so wonderfully sweet, and he’s always so warm . . .

A chuckle draws his attention to the doorway. Matthew stands there in his flannel pajamas, smiling in amusement. “Are you okay? You look nervous.”

“Nervous? No, I’m not nervous.” Gilbert realizes how defensive he looks only after he’s crossed his arms over his chest. He lets them hang loose again. “I just want to make sure you’re comfortable with all this.”

By way of response, Matthew walks over to the bed, pulls the covers back, crawls into the center of it, and curls up with a content sigh. Then he cracks one eye open, lips quirking. “Do I look comfy?”

Gilbert’s mouth is open, so he closes it. He flicks the light off (keeping the door open so a bit of hallway light pokes in) and joins his Omega in the bed. They flow together as if magnetized, Gilbert’s arms cinching around Matthew, Matthew tangling his legs with Gilbert’s. Touch, touch, touch. How can something be so lovely and so maddening at the same time?

“I wondered.” Matthew shifts a bit, so his head is on the pillow rather than Gilbert’s chest. He’s _just_ visible in the weak light from the hall; Gilbert can make out the gleam of his eyes and the vague slopes of his face. “I wondered,” he whispers again, “if I should ask for a goodnight kiss.”

Gilbert knows if he starts talking he’ll make a fool of himself with _well if you want I mean I don’t want to pressure you but I do want to kiss you so much_ so he just brushes his fingertips under Matthew’s chin and leans forward gingerly until their lips meet. Then they meet again. And again. And both his instincts and Matthew’s limbs are urging Gilbert to move on top. He does. Matthew gives the most delectable squeak. _Oh, God—_

Abruptly, they pull apart, panting. Gilbert frames Matthew’s face with his forearms, weight on his elbows. Matthew gazes up at him with a lustful sort of wonder and— _fuck_ —starts slowly grinding his hips upward into Gilbert’s.

“You don’t have to stop,” Matthew whispers. “I’m not afraid, Gil. I want you.”

There comes a point where even the best intentions throw up their hands and say, _Oh, screw it, just act now and regret later._

And he’s about to do just that, kissing the sweet soft warm skin of Matthew’s throat, but he gives one last qualifier, more preemptive self-deprecation than actual stalling: “It’s been a long time since I did this.”

Matthew’s smile is reassuring, but his eyes have a hint of uncertainty about them. “I’ve never, um—you know . . .”

Gilbert lifts his head again, each slathering beast within him going still with ears perked in concern. If Matthew means what Gilbert thinks he does, he has just gained yet another layer of hatred for Braginski and the other Alpha who tried to ruin Matthew’s life. “Never?”

Matthew shakes his head, squeezing his lips between his teeth in embarrassment.

Slowly, Gilbert shifts his weight until he’s further down on the bed, between Matthew’s spread legs. The Omega starts to sit up, but Gilbert strokes his waist, his belly, his thighs, physically imploring him to accept that he deserves to be worshipped. Gilbert hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of Matthew’s pajama bottoms, gently tugging them down past his knees. It’s been an even longer time since Gilbert did _this,_ but he knows the basics, and besides, Matthew won’t be judging him for it. Far from it: Matthew arches his back, pushes his head into the pillows and fills the bedroom with needy little mewls and gasped _yes yes yes_ while Gilbert’s tongue takes him closer and closer to—

_“Gah—ah—Gil!”_

Gilbert twines their fingers, holding on to him while Matthew trembles against him. When Matthew floats back down from his ecstasy, Gilbert smiles against his thigh as Matthew dissolves into tired but mirthful giggles. He pets Gilbert’s now-tousled hair. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” Gilbert moves up beside him again so they can spoon. “Now you know what you’re missing.”

A pause.

Matthew twists to look at him over his shoulder. “Did you want to—”

“No, I’m good.” Gilbert stifles laughter at the half-joking annoyed groan and nuzzles into the nape of Matthew’s neck. “Ask me again on New Year’s Eve.”

“Oh, I will.” Matthew ducks his head to kiss the back of Gilbert’s hand, voice dipping to a sleepy whisper. “Good night.”

Bathed in Matthew’s warmth and scent, Gilbert sinks down into a lovely dark cocoon. “Good night.”

* * *

“My dam used to let me open one present on Christmas Eve,” Francis says. They sit around the remains of a delicious dinner, Francis’s chair tipped back on its two rear legs; he and Antonio used to compete to see who could tilt back the furthest without falling while Gilbert complained loudly that they were going to end up cracking their heads open. If it worries Arthur, he doesn’t show it. “Usually just something small. Our little tradition.”

Though it pains him, he spares a thought for his dam, sitting in a care home, most likely asleep by now. He’s been to visit him, of course, but his dam never remembers Francis nor his sire. He doesn’t bother visiting anymore, for the same reason he doesn’t reach out to his sire—neither of them gain anything from speaking with Francis, and all he gets from it, time and time again, is heartbreak. Sooner or later even the most masochistic of souls will tire of familiar agony and move on to pastures new.

“If we’d done that we’d have nothing to open on Christmas morning,” Arthur remarks, without much bitterness. He twirls his fork round and round on his plate, dancing on its tines like a drunken waltz. “Never any luxury. Me and my oldest brother were the only ones who got brand-new clothes, so the middle two were jealous. Never mind that I’d much rather wear their hand-me-downs than the bloody dresses my dam stole from the 1950s.”

Francis tries to picture this trio of Alpha brothers. Are they freckled too? Big and broad, or svelte like Arthur? The closest thing he has to the brother dynamic is his relationship with Antonio and Gilbert, but he suspects it’s more respectful than the way siblings truly act. As an only child, he’s always been vaguely disturbed by stories of borderline bullying and needless insults. Shouldn’t brothers be closer than even friends? The shared blood, growing up together . . . you’re never lonely if you have a brother, right?

“Well,” Francis says, setting his chair back on all four legs, “you can open a present tonight, if you want to.”

A faint smirk teases Arthur’s lips. “I have presents?”

“You might.” Francis gets up to fetch the purchases he hid in his bag (long since having moved his clothes into Arthur’s closet). He only bought two things for Arthur—he would’ve gotten more, but right now he isn’t exactly drowning in funds, and it was rather difficult shopping for him when he had to stay within the Omega’s line of sight—so after a moment of consideration he grabs them both. They aren’t wrapped, just placed carefully in a Christmas-themed gift bag. _It’ll be nicer next year._ If he’s given a next year.

Happy thoughts.

When he comes out, Arthur has cleared the table of everything except a plastic bag wrapped up in a ball. Francis stifles a smile and sits back down, offering the gift. “This is both of your presents. I’m sorry it’s nothing fancy.”

“I didn’t get you anything fancy,” Arthur assures. “Don’t apologize. You didn’t have to get me anything at all, I—”

“Mon amour.” Francis smiles now, amused. “Just open it.”

Arthur opens his mouth, then lets it close again. He accepts the bag and peers inside. First he removes a small green pot, cocking his head rather than rotating it to read it. _“Soothing mint hand cream.”_

Francis nods. “For your suffering claws.”

Arthur looks up, then lets a crooked grin tug on his mouth. He shakes his head. “Well, my gnarled talons thank you.” Then he gingerly lifts a small potted plant from the bag and sets it on the table. “English ivy,” he says, without having to look at the tag. “I have some of this in my office already.”

“And now you can have some in your home,” Francis says. “It can be a place you like to spend time in, you know.”

Arthur fondly touches a spray of little leaves. “Yes, I’ve got some idea of that.” It takes a moment, but his eyes alight on Francis, vulnerable but warm. “Thank you.”

Francis reaches to give his hand a squeeze. “You’re welcome.”

The Omega pulls his hand away to nudge the plastic bag closer to Francis. “This isn’t really anything, but . . . Yeah. Open it.”

Francis obeys, untying the knot in the handles of the bag and drawing out a thin pink scarf. It’s not _exactly_ something he would wear—more suitable to a preteen Omega in a denim jacket than any outfit he could assemble with his clothes—but it’s a nice material, gauzy and weightless.

“This is . . . a surprise,” Francis says, unsure what to say. He can feel Arthur panicking though, so he wraps it luxuriously round his neck to prove he doesn’t hate it. “I thought you didn’t like frilly clothes like this.”

“Well.” Arthur shrugs, feigning nonchalance with practised expertise. “Anyone can wear pink. Everyone knows that.”

“That is true.” Francis has to laugh at how pleased Arthur looks. “A wise man must’ve said that.”

“Yes, he just did.” Arthur gets up. “I’ll get the water in the sink.”

“But—there’s something else in the bag.” He glances at Arthur, busying himself hovering over the dirty dishes, then pulls the other present out. It’s just a plastic circle, small enough to sit in the palm of his hand. He opens it and realizes it’s a compact, for putting on makeup; he ends up staring down at his own reflection.

“. . . Oh.” He glances to the Omega again, confused. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

Arthur goes very still. “You’re supposed to see yourself in it.”

The excitement Francis has had the past couple days, that intrinsic giddiness of the holiday season, falls silent. He looks over at Arthur, and says with the same self-deprecation the Omega wields so well, “I appreciate the gift, but not the view.”

To his shock, Arthur whirls around, hands gripping the edge of the counter on either side of him. “You’re such a hypocrite. You tell me to be nicer to myself, and yet you walk around like you don’t deserve to take up space. And you let people walk all over you, and you don’t even let yourself get angry. Have you seen what you look like?”

Francis is at once shielded and stabbed by this volley, and he feels appropriately torn. He looks down at himself in the mirror. “I look like a pretty boy. I look like the Alpha Omegas are always _just friends_ with because I’m harmless.” He doesn’t recognize his voice. “I look like someone who’ll never get to sire pups.”

Footsteps, and a hand covers the mirror. Francis looks up into Arthur’s intense eyes. “You are not a pretty boy,” the Omega tells him, with the incendiary sort of anger fueled by love. “You’re fucking gorgeous, and you should act like it. Any bitch should be happy to push out brats for you.”

By now, Francis can see through the language and so-called anger and he knows what a compliment this is. Still, his smile is sad. “Merci, but I’m not the ideal Alpha for the majority of Omegas. That’s just the truth. I’m not big, I have long hair, I’d rather talk than fight.”

Arthur scoffs. “So? I wear suits and swear like a sailor and I’d rather get in a fistfight with Beilschmidt than have a conversation like this, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t some sick fuck out there who’s into it.” He deflates a bit, one hand on his hip. “Well, obviously not you, but—and if someone was into you they wouldn’t be automatically sick, but—you know what I’m trying to say, goddamn it.”

“You’re very handsome while you wear suits and swear, by the way. Very distinguished.” Francis tilts his head to one side; a golden wave falls over his right eye. “But what _are_ you trying to say?”

Arthur’s hands fist at his sides, then release. “I love you.”

With his jaw set and his eyes blazing, he looks more like he’s threatening than admitting, but Francis’s heart still shines like the sun in his chest. He couldn’t fight his smile if he tried. “I love you, too.”

Arthur watches him warily, as if expecting some sort of explosion, then relaxes. “Don’t get too used to that. It takes a week off my life every time I say it.”

Francis inclines his head, sympathetic. “Well, look at the bright side. It can’t be worse for you than frozen food.”

Arthur narrows his eyes, grabbing the front of Francis’s shirt. “You’ve gotten hideously lippy.”

Francis lets Arthur tug him to his feet. “You’ve rubbed off on me.”

Arthur arches an eyebrow. Francis arches one right back.

Their smirks fit together perfectly.

* * *

Gilbert lets Matthew sleep in the next morning, because if any day is for relaxing, it should be Christmas. Too many people make it stressful. It’s not often that Gilbert gets a day where he can forget about all the negative things in the world, but the holidays mellow him out significantly. That, and Matthew looks so beautiful and cozy in Gilbert’s bed, he couldn’t dream of disturbing him. Gilbert risks only a light kiss to his Omega’s temple before he rises quietly from bed and takes a shower.

He can still taste Matthew on his tongue. It’s a shame, almost, to brush his teeth—but he’ll be able to kiss Matthew in a minute or an hour and the taste will return. He thinks of a life where his Omega is always within reach, always there to give a smile or a hug or a kiss. _Two months._ No, not two. Just one, now. Halfway there.

 _And illegal._ He meets his own gaze in the mirror. He could go to jail for what he did last night. Unlikely, but entirely possible on the technicality. But Matthew wanted it, and, perhaps more importantly, he deserved it. He’s something precious, something to be cherished. Gilbert wishes he could somehow tell Matthew these things, but he’s never had the words for feelings like this. Hopefully he showed him, last night, at least a glimpse.

Gilbert squints at his reflection. Has he always had those wrinkles in his forehead? And are those crow’s feet tiptoeing near the corners of his eyes? So far, he’s avoided thinking things like _When Matthew is x, I’ll be y._ But now all of this is real. There was no technical claiming last night—Gilbert thinks the old tradition of biting is more trouble than it’s worth, not to mention inconvenient for the Omega even if they do say they like it—but it wasn’t exactly a one-night-stand. They’ll be together, now.

“Merry Christmas.”

Gilbert turns. Matthew stands in the doorway, wearing only the shirt Gilbert wore yesterday. Gilbert is no more clothed, standing there in just the towel wrapped around his waist. They both take a moment to enjoy each other’s bodies, Matthew’s eyes on Gilbert’s chest, Gilbert’s on Matthew’s legs.

“Merry Christmas,” Gilbert returns, smiling. “Did I wake you up?”

Matthew shakes his head. He steps over and trails his fingertips through the light dusting of hair on Gilbert’s abdomen. “I wanted to shower with you.”

“Sorry.” He briefly considers offering to have another shower, but he suspects being in a small, hot, wet space with Matthew will lead to things he would rather hold off on as long as possible. He’s been in the waiting mindset so long he doesn’t know how to shift mental course; perhaps if he slams the barn door hard enough it’ll convince the horse to run round to the other side and go back in. “I’ll go get breakfast ready. Pancakes?”

Matthew grins. “Do you have to ask?”

He stretches up, so Gilbert gives him a little peck—that’s normal, isn’t it, the good-morning kiss? it feels rather ground-breaking—before he retreats downstairs, to the kitchen. The world is white and powdery out there. The sun is out, but it won’t be warm enough to make packy snow; the pups will have to wait for their crafting and snowball fighting. What is it about having someone young in the house that makes Christmas feel so new and _real_ again?

As he pours the pancake mix onto the pan—pre-made stuff, he’s not Francis—he lets memories of past Christmases wander through his thoughts. Recent ones with Francis and Antonio, all of them learning that Christmas without parents isn’t nearly as fun as they once imagined it would be, but childhood ones as well. He can just vaguely recall his last Christmas in his foster home, where all four children were taken to a thrift shop and allowed to choose one item they wanted. Gilbert had chosen a rather ratty stuffed dog, which once washed turned out to be quite soft. He’d held on to it for years, through his adoption and after the introduction of brand-new toys from his brand-new parents, until Ludwig came along and it was given to him. _Here, Luddy. I’m too old for stuffed animals so he’s yours now._ Ludwig had been an even more loving owner than Gilbert had. After Ludwig was kicked out of the house and his belongings were boxed up, Gilbert searched for the little dog, to no avail. None of the Beilschmidts have ever been materialistic, but his brother may be secretly sentimental enough to hold on to it. Gilbert hopes so.

He sighs quietly. _I hope you’re having a good Christmas, Luddy._

“Gil!” Matthew stands with his hands on his hips, teasingly cross, eyes on the bundle of wrapping paper next to his plate. “I thought we agreed to no presents this year.”

A restriction entirely because Matthew has no money to spend on Gilbert. In truth, even when Gilbert agreed to it he knew he’d end up giving the Omega something, one way or another. Now, he steps over to slip two pancakes on the plate and nuzzles briefly into Matthew’s curls. “Don’t worry. I didn’t break the bank.”

Matthew sits down and, despite being careful, makes a mess of the paper. To be fair, Gilbert has never been good at wrapping anything that can’t be described as a box. A teddy bear smiles up at Matthew with cute beady eyes, one of several waiting to replace the pair Gilbert keeps in his car. (Often victims will keep the stuffie given to them, especially minors, so he keeps a steady supply.) This one is white, ostensibly a polar bear, except for the light pink heart on its belly. Eyes sparkling, Matthew picks the teddy up and rubs his cheek against the heart—only to lower it again, looking over at Gilbert. “It smells like you!”

Gilbert nods, a bit sheepish. “I figured it would be easier to get away with than a big shirt.” Matthew has mentioned several times he wishes he could take one of Gilbert’s shirts to sleep with. Gilbert would do it in a heartbeat, but he doesn’t want to make the shelter’s matron suspicious. This is the most elegant solution he could think of, though there was nothing elegant about rubbing the bear against the scent glands on his neck and wrists.

“Aww, thank you.” Matthew hugs Gilbert with the teddy squeezed between them, even softer than usual. “I’ll find something to give you, I promise.”

“Shush. You don’t have to give me anything.” Gilbert breathes in the scent of him, lavender and maple and the indescribable essence of _mine_. “I already have what I want.”

* * *

Alfred hasn’t had guests over since the last time Arthur came over, and even that was just because his apartment is closer to their usual bar than Arthur’s flat. Actually inviting people in to eat has become an unfamiliar concept, let alone for something as important as Christmas dinner. Alfred channels his dam’s cooking skills—soul food all the way, even though they aren’t from the south—and prepares a, ahem, _big honkin’ turkey._

“Mmm, it smells wonderful in here,” Francis says, smiling after a long inhalation as soon as they step in the door. He’s wearing a scarf that neither blocks the cold nor matches his current outfit. He and Arthur both brush fat snowflakes from their hair.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” Arthur says, unbuttoning his overcoat. “No more Christmas chicken nuggets?”

“Hey,” Alfred says, without heat. He takes Arthur’s coat and hangs it up in the microscopic hall closet. “Let’s just not even go there with what we used to eat.”

“Let’s not,” Francis agrees, also without heat, while Arthur wrinkles his nose. “Can I help you at all in the kitchen?”

“I mean, sure, if you wanna go in there and make everything taste way better, don’t let me get in your way.”

Francis heads to the little kitchen as if returning to his homeland. Alfred and Arthur drift into the living room, where Alfred has put up a small Christmas tree. The tree is artificial but the popcorn strung over it is real (Alfred popped a lot more than what ended up on the tree). Arthur has a gift bag in his hand, and Alfred can’t help but wonder if this first present was Francis’s idea or just a symptom of Arthur’s new kinder temperament. _Either way,_ he supposes, _it’s Francis._ After all, Alfred only convinced Arthur not all Alphas want to fuck him and forget about him. Francis somehow managed to take his heart out, stitch up the rips and holes, melt the ice off it, and bleach out most of the blackness before sticking it back in without either of them dying of blood loss. It’s a feat so impressive Alfred really must congratulate him at the end of all this.

“A present?” Alfred says, hands on his cheeks, the image of astonishment. “For little ol’ me?”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Don’t look so surprised. You’re occasionally tolerable.”

“N’aww, shucks.” Alfred throws an arm around Arthur’s shoulders and plunges the other into the gift bag. After some rooting for comedic effect—Arthur cursing under his breath when he almost drops the bag—he pulls out a T-shirt. Arthur is squeezed even closer to him while Alfred grasps the shirt with both hands so he can read the front of it aloud.

 _“I’m into fitness — fitness ice cream in my mouth.”_ Beneath an appetizing likeness of a soft vanilla cone. Alfred gives an appreciative gasp and grins down at Arthur. “You got me a shirt with food _and_ a pun on it? Are you in love with me?”

“Not in this universe,” Arthur retorts, and when Alfred starts kissing his hair says, “Alright, alright, stop slobbering on me for God’s sake.” He pulls back enough to look up at Alfred, brow low on his eyes. He looks angry, but hurricanes usually do. “I just. I wanted to thank you. For being a good friend even though I was a total bellend.”

Ah, at last. Not that Alfred expects to be thanked for friendship, but when it’s the sort of relationship where one party continuously drowns himself on purpose and the other has to dive in and drag him to shore . . . well, it’s nice to get some recognition after all these years. And, though he wouldn’t admit it if asked, that niggling thing in the back of his mind that whispers _you’re not good enough no one likes you no one will ever want you the world is just biding its time until you give up someday you’ll run out of smiles you can’t hide forever_ is effectively silenced by Arthur’s words. A repressed, cynical Brit finally admitting Alfred is a good friend? Proving that he’s grateful for his presence, however obnoxious and annoying? Pure, gen-yoo-wine validation.

Alfred could say a lot of things, but he doesn’t. He just pulls Arthur against him, and this time the Omega’s arms come up around Alfred’s waist. There are no awkward back-slaps or sheepish inches maintained between them, just warmth and—

“Wait a second.” Alfred releases Arthur and circles him, sniffing. “Does my nose deceive me?” He swoops in to inhale along Arthur’s jaw. “You’re not wearing cologne!”

“ _Would_ you get away from me!” Arthur shoves him to arm’s length, flustered. “You spend so much time invading my personal space it may as well be declared American occupied territory.”

Alfred pouts. “Now you smell like some kind of Omega. How am I supposed to find you if the power goes out?”

“I’ll be the sharp pain.” Arthur rolls his eyes, arms crossed over his chest. Alfred watches his gaze dart over to the empty space beneath the tree before flicking away again.

He grins. “I did get you something, but it’s in my room. Hang on a sec.” He takes a moment to stumble through his bedroom—also known as the place he puts all the junk normally cluttering the rest of his apartment until the guests leave—before returning with his hands behind his back. “Okay, do you want the good or the bad first?”

Arthur stares at him. “. . . the bad, I suppose.”

“Like a good realist,” Alfred notes. He offers a round tin, done in pastel blue, pink, and yellow with a baby chick and several colorful eggs on the lid.

“Festive,” Arthur says, one brow arched.

“Reduce, reuse, recycle,” Alfred says proudly.

No snark about global warming; the good mood of Christmas has infected even the most savage of defense attorneys. Arthur pries the lid off and blinks in surprise. “Did you get these from the bakery?”

“No, I made ’em.”

Arthur stares at him again, incredulous. “ _You_ baked _scones_?”

“Sure.” Alfred clasps both hands round the remaining gift behind his back. “I told you, my doctor said I gotta be more healthy, so I’ve been making a lot of my own food. Did you think faeries came and cooked a turkey for me?”

Arthur’s expression doesn’t discount the possibility. “Well.” His voice has gone soft and small, now. They both know how long it’s been since he got homemade scones—truly homemade, not the bakery homemade. “Thank you, Alfred.” Then his brow furrows. “Why did you say these were bad?”

“Ha, ’cause I tried one.” Alfred smiles wide, ignoring the glower. “And now, the good.” With flourish, he reveals another colorful package.

“Flavored condoms.” Arthur studies the box. “In banana, chocolate, strawberry—”

“And cola,” Alfred finishes. “Lemme know about that one, I wanna know if it’s like pop or like root beer.”

“Yes,” Arthur says dryly. “I’ll be sure to report back.” Then he loses the sarcasm, gaze seeking Alfred’s. “And you got these as a joke, right?”

“Well.” Alfred keeps his smile on but allows his eyes to go serious. “I assumed you’d be out.”

They hold each other with canny, knowing looks.

Arthur sets his shoulders back. “So—”

“Relax. I’m happy for you.” Alfred nudges him playfully. “Your secret’s safe with me, brother.” He can feel Arthur’s startled attention on him, and he knows if he stays Arthur will get himself in a bother trying not to tear up, so he just gives his shoulder a squeeze. Loudly, he says, “I better go see how our delicious meal is doing in there. And the turkey.” They both laugh at Francis’s protest, and when Alfred glances back, he sees Arthur following him—eyes glinting, smile spreading, all of him bright.


	15. Be It Resolved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's just not even go there with the legal inaccuracies, lovelies
> 
> (and the truth shall set you free)

Today is the day.

For the first time in years, Arthur’s hands shake when he tries to knot his neck tie.

“Which is better?” Francis glances over at him, holding up two ties of his own. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Arthur clears his throat, at last pulling the silky fabric snug to his neck. “Wear the blue, I don’t want anything red going anywhere near you. And I’d prefer if you shaved your stubble, as well.”

To his surprise, a bit of disappointment darkens those blue eyes. “Oh. I thought you liked it.”

“I do.” Arthur touches his cheek, to cure him. “But I want you to look as . . . reputable as possible. I don’t want any of the jurors to look at you and think you’re scruffy or scraggly.”

Francis rubs his jaw, offended. “Scraggly?”

“Their potential words, not mine.”

“But I’ve always had it. The judge might think I’m trying to trick him, if I shave.”

Arthur regrets even mentioning facial hair now. “Well, leave it on, then. I suppose it doesn’t really matter.” If the jurors are that shallow, they probably won’t be moved by whatever Arthur says. He feels a sharp stab of dread. What if he chose wrong? What if he’s already let Francis down?

His heart is fluttering when he comes into the kitchen. “You really should eat,” Francis tells him, but the idea of food makes him feel nauseous. What he wants is to just get this over with, but it will be several hours—possibly days, depending how long the examinations go—before his work is done. And even then, it could be more days before the jury finishes deliberating and submits their decision. If he feels this anxious now, he doesn’t like to think how he’ll fare then.

“Here,” Francis says, pressing a small apple into Arthur’s palm. “Have this, at least.”

The gentle cradle of routine. He tears into the fruit while he scurries around the flat, checking and double-checking that he has all the paperwork he needs. He brings some blank paper along as well, just in case the stack on the prosecutor’s table is taller. His heart races nearly as fast as his mind. _What if, what if, what if—_

“Arthur.” Francis stills him with both hands on Arthur’s arms. “It’s okay. Whatever happens, it’s okay.”

“Whatever happens,” Arthur agrees, “you’re innocent.”

Francis’s gaze softens, and they embrace, careful not to wrinkle their suits. Arthur starts to pull back, but Francis keeps his hold and whispers, _Shhhhh, shhhhh._ They don’t have time for this, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s better to show up late but prepared than early and ruled by this turmoil inside him. Arthur closes his eyes and lets Francis’s breathing guide his own, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Every jagged, wriggling worry of _what if this goes wrong_ is balled up in his mind and melted in the sunshine. Gone. None of them matter, because they haven’t happened yet—and they won’t happen, if he has anything to say about it.

At last, Arthur opens his eyes and steps back. Francis looks him up and down, then smiles. “You look good.”

Arthur lets his lips carve a smirk. “I feel good.”

* * *

Antonio cannot believe he cut himself shaving this morning, of all mornings. Thankfully the nick is tiny, mostly hidden by his jaw, and it’s stopped bleeding now. If Francis was here, he’d have dabbed at it gently with a wet cloth, soothing and compassionate as always.

If Francis was here, Antonio wouldn’t be pacing back and forth in their apartment, wishing . . . well, wishing Francis was here.

It’s been creeping closer to him, stalking through grass and brush, camouflaged in shadowy doubts and blurry lines. The past few days, he’s been turning a blind eye, thinking he could rest easy with strength in numbers: Feliciano, Roma, Lovino, Gilbert. But now it’s breathing down his neck, and he can’t decide which fate would be worse. Dying without ever seeing his killer, or turning and accepting his downfall.

Either way, the stalking monster will give the same wicked whisper:

_You made a mistake._

Antonio checks his watch, then checks it again, eyes flying wide open. He snatches his papers in one hand and his flapping briefcase in the other, hurrying out the door of his office. Only when the cold air hits him does he realize his pain has a physical source, as well.

Blood gushes from the paper cut in his finger.

* * *

Feliciano has thrown up three times already. It turns out morning sickness doesn’t wait until you’re awake, and doesn’t only happen in the morning either. He vomits sometime between midnight and dawn, then again right before breakfast and right after. Lovino settles him on the sofa with some ginger ale and a heating pad.

“We should ask them to postpone the trial,” Roma says, pacing between the kitchen and the living room as if his agitation is too large to be contained by just one room. “They can do that, can’t they?”

Feliciano looks up at Lovino, whose mouth twists. “I don’t know,” Lovino says. “It’s short notice, and if Feli can still walk and talk . . .”

Both of his family members look to him, Roma expectant and Lovino too complicated to properly read. There’s something hard in the hazel eyes, something pressuring, something that says _You know what you have to do. We’re in this now, whether we like it or not. Do this for yourself, if you don’t want to do it for me._

Feliciano nods, even though each slight inclination of his head feels like another nail in his coffin. He’s always wanted to please people, for as long as he can remember. He’s been told again and again that it’s impossible to make everyone happy. Now he knows for sure that it’s true. He’s crushed between a rock and a hard place. He feels sickened.

There isn’t an outcome where he can be happy with himself.

* * *

Oddly, Francis finds that he isn’t overly anxious this morning. If this was his own trial—as in, one where he is the acting lawyer—he’d be doing his usual: measured breaths, jiggling knee, maybe sneaking off to the courthouse bathroom to go over his opening statement one more time. (All things Antonio does, as well, and Francis wonders if his old friend is experiencing such jitters right now.) But Francis is more concerned about Arthur’s well-being than his own, perhaps because his mind hasn’t accepted that the trial is a real thing that will determine his fate in the following hours. That’s in the future and Arthur is now, and as they pull into the parking lot—with a rock station of Arthur’s _motivational music_ still blaring—both of them inhale through their teeth.

“Fuck me,” the English Omega mutters, eyeing the reporters crowded on the courthouse steps. They’ve come early in an attempt to avoid this, but evidently there is no escape from paparazzi. Francis has never been part of a case that drew more than one or two reporters; it would be exciting, if it wasn’t so horrible.

From the center console, Arthur withdraws a pair of sunglasses. “Normally,” he says, “I would give these to my client to wear on the way in. That way I don’t have to worry about them glaring at reporters or looking guilty or any of that. But it’s up to you.”

The unsaid— _I trust you to make the decision_ —warms Francis. He has no intention of glaring, and if he looks guilty, well, that’s up to the interpretation of his audience. And if he _does_ wear them, that’s him donning the costume of the accused. He doesn’t want to do that. All at once, he imagines being violated by a correctional officer and offered the hideous orange uniform. _No._ He won’t do it. He’s given up trying to remember if he harmed Feliciano or not, but Arthur believes so firmly he’s innocent Francis has been converted to share that belief. He would never do something like that. He has a mate now, has proven that he is capable of loving touches and is worth being lovingly touched in return. But . . . He _can’t_. . .

There. Now he’s anxious.

“No,” he says, after a deep breath. “I won’t hide from them.”

Arthur nods, putting the shades away. “Alright. Don’t say a word to them. Don’t touch them. Don’t make eye contact but don’t avoid it either.”

Francis blinks. “. . . Then what _do_ I do?”

Arthur gathers up his briefcase. “Follow me.”

Which turns out to be easier said than done. Arthur carves a path through the forest of journalists—most of them Alphas, and Francis has to focus on not baring his teeth when they shove their microphones into his mate’s face—and when his sharp “No comment” sinks in, they turn on Francis.

“Mr. Bonnefoy, what do you have to say about these accusations?”

“Is it true you were drinking on the night of the alleged assault?”

“Do you believe the outcome of this case will be affected by your status as DDA?”

“Did heat have any part in this?”

“Was this a religious matter?”

Francis nearly does a double take at that, but Arthur saves him, hauling him into the courthouse and closing the door behind them. Because Feliciano is a minor, it’s a closed court; no one other than relevant parties are welcome in, least of all the hounding reporters. Francis follows Arthur, overwhelmed and sort of stunned by the words swirling around his skull. He’s vaguely aware of Arthur checking in with a clerk, but his thoughts are wandering. Berwald Oxenstierna will be in his chambers right now, taking a brief break between hearings. The jury will be filing into their box. Gilbert and Matthew will be in the gallery, waiting for their time to testify. Feliciano, Lovino, and Roma Vargas are likely in the private room generally reserved for the pups of Omega clients to be supervised if no other arrangements can be made. And Antonio—

“Mr. Carriedo,” Arthur says, interrupting Francis’s reverie. _Think of the devil._

Antonio ignores him long enough to check himself in, then turns to face them both. Francis hasn’t seen such exhaustion in his eyes since final exam week. Antonio has never allowed cases to wear him down. What’s so different about this one? It can’t be just Francis, can it?

“Morning,” he says. His gaze finds Francis’s, hurries away, then returns again. “Feeling up to it?”

It’s a pathetic shadow of the taunts he and Francis used to hurl at Arthur. The English Omega seems to recognize this for what it is, and simply regards Antonio calmly. “More or less.” He extends a hand. “Good luck.”

Antonio stares at the pale, freckled offering as if it might simultaneously combust at any moment. Tentatively, he shakes the hand, misgiving still darkening his expression. “Same to you.”

Then it’s time. They make their way into the courtroom, and this time Francis turns left without trouble. He looks straight ahead, but he can feel the jury, witnesses, and court staff staring at him. In fact, the only eyes not on him are the two green gazes of the attorneys. In the corner of his eye, Francis watches Arthur and Antonio sizing each other up. They are fighters in opposing corners of the ring, riled tom cats circling each other, soldiers waiting for the first shot to ring out across No Man’s Land.

“All rise,” says the bailiff. “This court is now in session, the Honorable Berwald Oxenstierna presiding.”

The chambers door opens, and out comes Berwald in robes to put Reverend Vargas to shame. Antonio lifts his chin. Arthur’s eyes narrow. _En garde._

“Be seated,” says the judge. “Let’s not mince words, counselors. I think we can all agree this case is best put behind us, so let’s do that as swiftly and justly as possible. As the majority of people in this courtroom are under forty I’d like to remind you all that this is a court of law and if you have an electronic device on your person, I’d better not be made aware of it. No one will speak unless spoken to. This is a highly emotional circumstance, and I expect everyone to conduct yourselves as civilly as possible.” Was that a glance in Roma’s direction? “Now, if all that is understood.” He adjusts his glasses and nods to the prosecution table. “Let’s begin.”

* * *

Antonio has always hated that his spot is across the room from the jury box. It feels wrong on multiple levels; the accused could be dangerous, after all, so why should he be close to the innocent people? And Antonio feels like he has to work harder to make a connection with them from all the way over here. That’s why he usually asks to approach whenever possible, but he doesn’t do it now. He doesn’t want to be any closer to Francis.

 _Good luck._ What is Kirkland doing, trying to get into his head? (Because it’s working.)

“Feliciano Vargas is your typical teenager.” He’s written and rewritten this opening statement so many times, it’s nothing but smudged ink in his mind, but it comes out even enough. “He does his best in school, he likes to eat pizza and cookies, and one day he’d like to start a family of his own. But none of those things make him happy anymore. Now he has nightmares, and he spends more time crying than laughing or smiling. All because Francis Bonnefoy valued his own pleasure over Feliciano’s.”

His voice almost shakes. _God, just let me get through this._

“Today, the state will show you that Feliciano Vargas left the house around eight p.m. to get something from the grocery store. He walked by himself, along the side of the road. But he never made it to the store. Not even halfway there, he crossed paths with Francis Bonnefoy. He’d been drinking heavily, and Feliciano could smell the alcohol on him. He asked him if he was okay, but Francis didn’t say anything. He just pushed him down into the ditch, put his hand over his mouth, and raped him.”

Antonio sweeps his gaze over the jury. Half of them are solemn, one is blank, and the rest are bright-eyed with sadness. He doesn’t dare look at anyone else; he’s afraid he’ll waver, or worse, break.

“Feliciano Vargas has been comforted and supported by his family—and his older brother and their adoptive sire—and by the congregation of his church and by the staff of his parochial school. But true consolation won’t come until he can rest assured that the Alpha who hurt him will be kept behind bars, far away from him and from any other Omega he might harm.” He holds out his hands, entreating. “And won’t all of you rest easier, too, knowing that you or someone you love won’t be at risk when they venture out after dark?

“Please.” He lets just a hint of his desperation show through, and the blank juror’s face crinkles into sympathy. “Listen carefully to everything you hear today. And when you’re asked if you think Francis is innocent, let your voices be heard. Feliciano wasn’t allowed to say _no_ . . . but all of you are.”

* * *

_Miserable Spanish twat._ If only his opponent was some balding conservative Alpha or something, then this affair would be more polarizing. The irritating truth is that Arthur and Antonio have much the same views, political and otherwise, and the fact that they’re only disagreeing on Francis’s fate—and the fact that Antonio is coming in with the victim and the police on his side—makes Arthur’s stance invalidated by default.

He takes his time standing and fastening the middle button of his suit jacket. Francis is watching him, but he doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t look at the jury either. Not yet.

“I don’t need to tell you this,” he says, offhand, “but it’s best not to jump to conclusions. A proper decision can only be made after thoroughly considering both sides of the story, without bias or judgement until each side has finished presenting their argument. But I don’t need to tell you that, because I’ve already spoken to all of you, and I know none of you are impulsive or impatient.”

He glances at them now. Roderich, in particular, has an eyebrow arched. _Yes,_ Arthur thinks at him. _That’s a warning, musician._

“I’d like to do something different from the usual legal performance.” He steps round to the outside of the defense table and sits on the corner of it, blocking some juror’s view of Antonio. “I’m going to be straightforward with you, and I’m going to do some unsavory things. For example, I’m going to tell you that an alleged rape victim is lying. And I’m going to talk about the religion of said victim in an unflattering light.”

As he expected, some of the jurors look displeased by this. Antonio’s soldiers. Those are the ones Arthur needs to convince.

“I propose to you that Francis Bonnefoy did cross paths with Feliciano Vargas that night, but he did not push him down into a ditch, he did not hold a hand over his mouth, and he most certainly did not rape him.” Arthur clasps his hands neatly in his lap. “Instead, consider that Feliciano is the child of a reverend and enrolled in a religious school. All of his life, he’s been told that mating must be done after pair-bonding. To get pregnant outside of wedlock would be a terrible sin.” He raises his eyebrows at the jurors. “More terrible, perhaps, than lying about an assault.”

“But as I said.” Arthur stands. “None of you are impulsive or impatient. All of you will consider the consequences of your words and actions carefully. And when giving your verdict, think twice before you speak. After all.” He smirks. “Thou shall not lie.”

* * *

First up is Feliciano. After he gives his testimony, he’ll be taken back to the private room. This is to protect him from the emotional toll of being in Francis’s presence, but it protects Antonio too. Looking at the Italian Omega with Arthur Kirkland’s words lingering in his mind . . . Antonio feels like he’s doing this wrong. The first rule of lawyering: _Never ask a question you don’t know the answer to._ He and Feliciano have gone over all these questions, multiple times. He knows precisely what will come out of Feliciano’s mouth. _But is it true?_

For half an hour, they go over the details of the night. Feliciano recounts the statement he gave to Gilbert. Heading out into the dark, walking along the road, seeing Francis, being attacked, returning home, having a bath, going to bed, and finally reporting it the following afternoon. If this was a different case, Antonio would go into much more detail with all of this. He would ask for the emotions, the close-ups, anything he can get out of the victim to paint a clear, terrifying picture to the jury. _Put yourselves in this Omega’s shoes and tell me you wouldn’t convict the Alpha who did this to you._ But he can’t bring himself to do it now. It feels inappropriate and slimy, like he’s glorifying violence, like he’s showcasing a snuff film. _But it_ is _appropriate,_ protests a voice in the back of his head. _It happened. It’s not fiction._

Perhaps because he has Lovino at his side, Feliciano is in a steady enough state when Antonio sits back down at the prosecutor table. The Omega looks a bit pale, but so far there’s no sign of tears. Antonio doesn’t expect that to last long.

Arthur stands smoothly. “You said that your brother pressured you to report the rape as soon as it happened, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you listen to him?”

“Because . . .” Feliciano’s gaze drifts to Antonio, but he’s beyond his help now. “I didn’t know if I was going to report it at all. I was afraid. I—I thought he might hurt me. Maybe.”

Arthur arches an eyebrow ever so slightly. “Had you spoken to Mr. Bonnefoy before the alleged attack?”

“No.”

“And you said he didn’t say anything to you before the alleged attack?”

“No.”

“And nothing after?”

“No.”

“But you thought he might still be dangerous to you.”

Feliciano ducks his chin a little, but his voice is still whole: “Yes.”

“Alright.” Arthur picks up a large piece of paper from the defense table, holds it up for Feliciano and the judge to see. “Can you tell me what this is?”

Feliciano blinks. “It’s a picture.”

“. . . of?”

“A ditch.”

“Is this the location where Mr. Bonnefoy allegedly pushed you down?”

Feliciano looks to his brother, but Arthur’s throat clears before any communication can pass between them. “Yes.”

“Excellent.” Arthur holds up another piece of paper. “Can you tell me what this picture is?”

Both Italian Omegas squint. Haltingly, Feliciano replies, “The ditch from far away?”

“Yes. This is the view of the ditch from inside a car. Can you see the ditch in the headlights?”

“Yes, some of it.”

“Good. One last picture.” This one he pivots, so the jury can see it as well. “Can you tell me what this one is?”

Something like panic widens Feliciano’s eyes—and Lovino’s, too. Antonio sees Lovino’s arm upper flex; how tight is he holding his brother’s hand? Feliciano has to swallow before he speaks, and it comes out shaky: “I-It’s Francis. In the ditch.”

“Can you describe his posture?”

“He . . . he’s down on hands and knees.”

“Would you say this is similar to the pose he was in during the attack?”

 _No alleged this time,_ Antonio notes weakly. As if that matters.

Feliciano tears up now, breaths coming quicker. “I don’t . . .” Lovino’s hand moves to his back, rubbing up and down. Feliciano sniffles, miserable. “Yes.”

Arthur shows the photograph to the jury a few moments longer, then focuses on the victim once again. “Do you remember hearing or seeing any cars driving by during the attack?”

Feliciano chews his lip. “No.”

“Is it possible that vehicles did go by, but you just didn’t notice?”

He’s caught there, because of course it’s possible. “I—I guess so.”

“So if there were cars going by, it would be possible for them to see you and Francis struggling in the ditch, correct?”

“I . . .”

Arthur folds his arms over his chest. “It’s a yes or no question, Mr. Vargas.”

Feliciano ducks his head meekly. “Yes.”

Arthur nods. “So, your family is religious. Is that right?”

When Feliciano relaxes—only barely, but Antonio can see it—Lovino takes up the stress, shoulders stiffening beneath his blazer. “Yes. My grampa is the reverend.”

“Just to be clear, he isn’t your paternal or adoptive grandsire.”

“No. I just call him Grampa.”

“Right. Do you enjoy being the son of a reverend?”

Some pleasant light finally enters the amber eyes. “Yes.”

“Do you ever feel pressured to act a certain way because of it?”

Feliciano’s brow crinkles slightly. “I don’t know. I guess, maybe. I have to be nice and kind, but everyone is supposed to be nice. You don’t go to heaven if you aren’t.”

 _God help us all,_ Antonio thinks.

“Do rapists go to heaven?”

Feliciano’s eyes fly wide open. “No!”

“What about victims of rape?”

Now he’s looking for Roma. He sounds distanced from his words. “Victims aren’t punished for what happened to them against their will.”

“And what about people who have sex without pair-bonding first?” Arthur says, tilting his head to one side as if this is all just a curiosity to him. “What about people who get pregnant out of wedlock?”

Just like that, the tears are coming down Feliciano’s cheeks.

“Take your time,” Berwald says, a surprisingly gentle rumble from the stoic justice.

“They . . . it’s bad,” Feliciano says, haunted. “They’re sinners. So they don’t get into heaven.”

“Are there any consequences for something like that, within the church itself?”

Feliciano nods, looking down at his lap. “You could be excommunicated.”

“Could you tell us what that means, for any who may be unaware?”

Lovino is openly glaring at Arthur now, but Feliciano can’t look at him. “It means you get kicked out. You can’t come back to church. They don’t want you anymore.”

“How would you feel if you were excommunicated, Mr. Vargas?”

Feliciano’s face falls, lip quivering, but Arthur waits patiently until he at last replies, “I would be very sad. It would be the worst thing. I would hate myself.”

Here, Arthur waits, so that answer can well and truly sink in. Antonio hates it. Hates how good Arthur is, hates how angry Lovino looks, and hates how . . . defeated Feliciano sounds. He didn’t give that response right away, but when it came out it sounded like something he’d thought about before, a response he’s falling back on because it’s handy.

God help him, but Antonio wishes he could go back to his fervor at the beginning of all this, when he was blinded by his need to protect these two Omegas. Now his eyes are opening, and it hurts.

“Thank you,” Arthur says. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

* * *

Dr. Honda has been called to the witness stand several times throughout his career, so none of this is new to him—though he’s never been involved in a case with the defense attorney so open about calling the victim a liar.

“How would you describe Feliciano’s state when you examined him?” Antonio asks.

“Nervous, frightened. His heart rate was above normal. Completely normal, in assault victims.”

“Even a day after being attacked?”

“It could be a year after, Mr. Carriedo. Reporting a rape and submitting to a rape exam is a highly emotional and intimidating process.”

Antonio nods. “Can you describe the exam?”

“The victim first stands over a sheet and undresses, so no debris will be lost. After a visual examination—searching for an visible lesions or bruises—it’s done again with a UV light, to show any DNA. Then a pelvic exam.”

“How does DNA present on sexual assault victims?”

“Saliva, blood, semen. Stray hairs, skin cells trapped under fingernails.”

Dr. Honda is always surprised by how lawyers can completely ignore important information, just because it’s not good for their case. Antonio does not ask anything else about DNA, just hands the reins over to the defense.

Arthur doesn’t move from behind the table this time. Dr. Honda wonders if anyone else notices how Arthur and Francis are subtly angled toward each other. “So, Dr. Honda,” Arthur says. “I’m sure we’re all wondering. What were the results of your examination on Mr. Vargas?”

“I found no signs of physical injury and no DNA traces of Francis Bonnefoy. Or any other Alpha, for that matter.”

Of course, Arthur smiles at that. “And the absence of semen means there’s no way to actually prove penetration occurred, correct?”

Dr. Honda keeps any emotion far from his face. “Yes, that’s correct.”

“Did you see any internal signs that _might_ imply Feliciano was penetrated?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“So as far as your exam is concerned, sexual intercourse did not occur, consensual or not.”

“That’s not the purpose of the exam. My job is to search for anything that might be used against the perpetrator.”

“Okay. Did you find anything of that sort?”

Dr. Honda sighs. “No.”

The defense attorney smiles sweetly. “Nothing further.”

Abruptly, Antonio pushes to his feet. “Redirect, Your Honor.” Green eyes seek Dr. Honda. “Is it true that sexual assault doesn’t always lead to internal trauma?”

“Yes, that is true.”

“So a victim could be raped without showing any bruises or lesions.”

“Correct.”

“Thank you.” He drops back into his seat, already exhausted.

* * *

“Could you read aloud the section of the transcript I’ve highlighted, Doctor?” Arthur asks.

Feliks takes a moment to find the pertinent part. He was perfectly perky when answering Antonio’s questions, but now that Arthur’s cross-examining him he’s dragging his heels. “Feliciano said _‘I feel . . . I don’t know. Guilty, almost.’_ ”

“And your response was, if you’ll allow me to paraphrase, that feeling guilty is normal for a victim.”

“Yes. Many victims feel that way. It feels wrong for them to have all the attention for something so horrible.”

Arthur looks dubious. “Alright. Is it possible that Feliciano might instead feel guilty for the fact that he’s lying?”

“Objection,” Antonio barks.

Arthur’s smile is tight. “Rephrase. As a psychiatric professional, did you notice any signs of lying in Feliciano? For example, in his body language?”

Feliks glances at Antonio, who holds up helpless hands. Feliks thinks Antonio is getting a bit too upset about the proceedings today, if he’s honest. “Feliciano felt guilty and self-loathing, like many victims do. Those are synonymous with some signs of lying. The human mind isn’t black and white, Mr. Kirkland. I assumed you would know that already, as a defense attorney.”

Arthur glances over at Antonio’s smirk, jaw working. “No further questions.”

* * *

Lovino looks pissed to be back on the stand. Antonio doesn’t really blame him. If he had to sit next to a loved one in silence while Arthur Kirkland messed with their head, he wouldn’t be too happy either.

“You and Feliciano grew up in the foster system, right?”

“Yeah. We never knew our parents. I don’t remember them.”

“So you’ve sort of been responsible for your brother? As the older sibling?”

“Yep.” Lovino’s gaze is dark, closed off. “I had to make sure he was safe. Most of the foster parents we had couldn’t be trusted to do that. I made sure he got dressed and fed and went to school.”

“That must have been hard for you,” Antonio says, hoping the jury is picking up on the sympathy he’s trying to invoke. “You didn’t really get a childhood of your own, then?”

“Not so much.” Lovino shrugs. “You play the cards you’re dealt.”

 _Don’t say that, Lovi._ “How has this assault affected you?”

“I’ve had to watch my little brother go through hell. I have to listen to him cry himself to sleep every night. I have to watch him worry about what he’s going to do with himself now. He’s afraid of his own shadow, now. I hate it.”

Antonio doesn’t bother with a smile, because he knows it’ll look uneasy. “I can tell you love your brother very much. How did you feel when he refused to report the assault?”

“Angry. I know it’s best to report it right away, so that’s what I wanted him to do.”

Antonio nods. “Can you tell the jury what your occupation is?”

Lovino lifts his chin. “I’m the secretary of the DDAs. That includes you and Mr. Bonnefoy.”

“Did you ever notice inappropriate behavior in Mr. Bonnefoy before this assault?”

“Yes. He flirted with me all the time.”

“Did he ever say anything sexually explicit or deviant to you?”

“No. But it was still inappropriate.”

“Did it make you feel uncomfortable?”

“Yes.”

“Did it ever make you feel frightened for your safety?”

“Not at the time. Now, thinking back on it, yes.” Lovino’s gaze finds the jury with the weight of a nominated actor. “It could have been me.”

* * *

Arthur takes a moment to breathe before he starts his cross-examination. He has a feeling this one will be rocky, particularly because hazel eyes are already regarding him with contempt. Beside him, Francis is trying his hardest not to look nervous. Between bouts of note-taking during Antonio’s questioning, Arthur has written Francis a few little notes. _Relax. It’s barely begun. Let me do the worrying._ Francis doesn’t respond to them, but he sneaks tiny, warm smiles to Arthur. Each time, it’s jarring. They can’t be mates in this courtroom—the very place that prohibits their relationship going beyond client and attorney—but they are. It’s like nodding off and jolting awake again and again, this hiding in plain sight. Arthur keeps forgetting about it, then catches himself absently admiring Francis’s knuckles and wondering if he should look around to check if anyone noticed. _Relax,_ he thinks, chiding himself this time.

Arthur stands, hands in his pockets. “Are you a man of faith, Mr. Vargas?”

“No.” Lovino’s arms cross over his chest. “I go to church, but I’m agnostic.”

The only thing that surprises Arthur there is the term _agnostic_ rather than atheist. “Do you believe in pair-bonding before mating?”

Lovino considers this for a moment before replying, “No, I think people should be able to do what they want without an old book bossing them around.”

Arthur has to fight the temptation to glance behind him at Roma, who must be fuming in the gallery right now. _He’s up next,_ he thinks. _I’ll have plenty of time to look at him._ “So you don’t believe in sinners and going to hell.”

“No.”

“Does this create any tension between you and your adoptive sire?”

“Sometimes.” Lovino studies his nails, indifferent.

“Does it create any tension between you and your brother?”

“Nope.”

Arthur quirks an eyebrow. “Tell me about your relationship with Mr. Bonnefoy. You work as his secretary, as you said. Did you enjoy it?”

Lovino’s brow furrows. “He made me uncomfortable—”

“Yes, we’ve established that. But was there ever a time when you enjoyed it?”

“. . . I guess . . .”

“Could you give us an example of the sort of inappropriate things he would say?”

A slight sneer on the Italian Omega’s lips. “I didn’t memorize them.”

“No, of course not. But just an approximation of something he would say?”

“I don’t know.” Lovino’s eyes brighten with a sudden memory. “He told me I should smile more. Apparently I look better when I’m smiling.”

Arthur stifles a wince, because he can feel the Omega jurors scowling at that, and because he can remember Francis telling Arthur himself that very thing. _You dug your own grave, my love. These two just pushed you into it._ He clears his throat, back to business. “Did you ever tell Mr. Bonnefoy you were uncomfortable with his remarks?”

“I didn’t,” Lovino admits. He crosses his arms over his chest. “But I shouldn’t have to. It’s not appropriate for the workplace.”

“May I approach the witness, Your Honor?” At Berwald’s nod, Arthur steps into the well, which still feels like alien territory even after all these years. He wouldn’t normally ask to move in closer, but he wants this impudent Omega to look him in the eye while he’s addressing him. That, and if he’s right about all this—he could be doing a lot worse to Lovino right now for the hell he’s put Francis through. “Would you say you spoke to Francis more, less, or the same amount as you spoke to Antonio?”

Lovino’s brow lowers on his eyes, suspicious. “The same, I guess.”

“I see. And did Antonio flirt with you, as well?”

“Objection!”

Arthur glances over his shoulder, brow arched.

“On what grounds, counselor?” Berwald asks.

“Wh—relevance,” Antonio splutters, eyes wide.

“Overruled.” Berwald gestures to Lovino. “Answer the question, Mr. Vargas.”

“Yes,” Lovino snaps. “He flirted, too. But Francis was way worse.”

Ignoring this, Arthur smugly waits until Antonio sits back down, then turns back round to the witness stand. “Did you mind when Antonio flirted with you?”

“. . . Yes.” But the hesitation beforehand is long enough that everyone in the room can tell he’s lying.

“So perhaps it’s not that it’s inappropriate,” Arthur reasons, “but it’s a personal vendetta against Francis?”

“Ob _ject_ ion!”

Berwald takes a deep breath. “What is it now, counselor?”

Antonio’s eyes blaze. “This case isn’t about workplace harassment, it’s about felonious sexual assault. I fail to see the relevance.”

The judge gazes at them all for a long moment, then says, “Overruled.”

All eyes go to Lovino.

Who glares at Arthur and nearly snarls, “Francis’s flirting was more annoying than Antonio’s because it was patronizing and sexist. I didn’t feel respected.”

“And yet you never mentioned this to your employer? Or did our District Attorney treat you this way, as well?”

“No.” Lovino lifts his chin. “I just never mentioned it.”

“Why not?”

Lovino huffs. “It was just part of the job. I sucked it up. I wasn’t going to risk losing employment over it.” Slight pause. “Or anything worse that Francis is capable of.”

Arthur looks at him sharply. Both Omegas stare intensely at each other, eyes narrowed with mistrust and loathing, until finally Arthur asks, “What would you do, Mr. Vargas, to protect your little brother?”

No hesitation. “Anything.”

“Would you risk suffering on your own part?”

“Yeah.”

“Would you feel his pain for him, if you could?”

“Yes.”

“Would you lie for him?”

“Ye—” Lovino falls silent, furious.

You could hear a pin drop in the courtroom.

“You’ll have to restate your answer for the stenographer,” the judge says.

“Yes.” Those hazel eyes have murder in them.

Arthur turns on his heel. “Nothing further.”

* * *

“What is your faith’s opinion on same-sex relations?”

Roma frowns. Arthur already admitted his intention to paint religion in unflattering colors, so Roma’s been dreading this. Why is it when religion is brought up, especially in a setting like this, it’s always negative?

“It’s not a lifestyle I can condone,” he replies. “In God’s eyes, it is a sin.”

“Mm.” There’s disgust in the slight twist of Arthur’s mouth. “If someone in your church confessed to you that he was gay, what would you do?”

“I would help him as much as I could. So long as he didn’t act on the urges, he could be welcomed into heaven. Most things can be overcome, with enough prayer.”

Arthur nods slowly, just short of mockery. “And what if someone in your church had a pup outside of wedlock?”

Roma narrows his eyes. “Then he would most likely be excommunicated.”

Arthur’s eyebrows spike. “That’s it? Kicked out, no hope of return?”

“He would need to repent and work hard to purify himself.”

“And what if that person was your adopted pup?”

Roma looks to Antonio, expecting the prosecutor to leap up with another cry of _objection,_ but the Spanish Alpha is just slumped in his chair, rubbing his temples. He glances over at Francis Bonnefoy, who’s looking back at Roma with something like sympathy in his eyes. _How dare you feel sorry for me,_ he thinks. A rapist thinking he has it better than a reverend!

“I’m not biased by family ties,” Roma replies, then actually hears his words. He scorned Antonio’s advice to speak carefully—he does public speaking for a living, of course he knows the importance of precise words—but now he realizes how impulsive he can be. The truth is, he is biased. Anyone can see this. But in the context of church, as Reverend rather than Grampa, he can’t accept a sinner’s actions. He can’t simply look past something like that. But why is this . . . yes, this damned Omega putting these foul thoughts into his head?

“How would that affect your home life with that child?” Arthur asks. “Would you be able to eat breakfast with him?”

Roma shakes his head. It’s a painful fantasy, but a fantasy nonetheless. “I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t be able to welcome him under my roof, at home or in church.”

Arthur glances at the jury, then back at Roma. His teeth flash in half a grin, impressed. “Well. Thank you. No further questions, Reverend.”

* * *

Perhaps fittingly, Gilbert is Antonio’s best shot in Feliciano’s favor. Everyone will listen to a huge SVU detective with white hair and red eyes, whether they want to or not. Though he’s never glad for the reasoning behind it—because it means an Omega has been abused—he’s always relieved when he gets to call Gilbert as a witness. It’s comforting, having someone on his side no matter the outcome.

 _That’s what Francis used to think about me._ Antonio shakes it off. He can’t leave for a guilt trip in the middle of testimony.

“There were no footprints found at the scene of the crime,” Gilbert is saying. “No trace of the victim or the alleged assailant.”

“Did you search anywhere else?”

“Yes. I searched the accused’s bedroom and his desk.”

“What did you find?”

“His jacket was on his desk chair. I found a scrap of torn underwear in his pocket.”

“This is the jacket he was wearing on the night of the attack?”

“Correct.”

“Do you have proof that the underwear belonged to the victim?”

“Yes. The rest of the underwear were recovered from the victim’s bedroom. He also confirmed he was wearing them when it happened.”

Antonio finally understands why most people have no interest in the litigation process. He can feel, now, how othering it can seem; all the strange language and complicated formalities involved are pointless when it comes down to it. If this had happened a thousand years ago, how would it have been solved? Murder, probably. Violence of some sort, almost certainly. Even today, Francis could be shot by someone with a skewed sense of justice and too much righteousness for his own good. And this is the alternative: men in suits parading people to speak before a dozen uninvolved parties so they can decide who should be punished. This is the best they can come up with?

He thinks, _Lovi and Feli deserve more._

And he also thinks, _Francis deserves more._

Gilbert is waiting expectantly for his next question, but the line of inquiry that once seemed stark as a lightning strike now feels like train tracks vanishing into the distance, out of Antonio’s reach. “Nothing further,” he murmurs, lowering his gaze when Gilbert’s brow furrows in concern. For the first time, winning a trial may not be the best outcome. Not that it really matters. When he glances over at Francis, the French Alpha can’t—or won’t—look back at him.

Antonio wonders how much he’s already lost.

* * *

“So the alleged assault occurred in a ditch in November,” Arthur says, once again seated on the defense table with his ankles crossed. “Yet there was no dirt on the clothes of the victim or the accused?”

Gilbert has not been looking forward to any part of this, but the part where Arthur does his redcoat routine is his least favorite by far. Still, at least Arthur and Francis are staying emotionally stable through this. Antonio looks like he might fall apart at any time, just like his client before he was ushered out of the courtroom. Lovino has joined his brother now that he’s done testifying; Gilbert can’t help but wonder what they’re talking about right now. Comforting each other? Or conniving about their next move?

In retrospect, Gilbert sort of wishes Arthur had spoken with him about his plan of attack on the Italian Omegas, but that’s not the way these things go. Defense attorneys generally see police as the enemy—that is, as allies of the prosecutors. Arthur is a lot better at cutting through the nonsense than Gilbert. _No Omega bias,_ he suspects. If Lovino was an Alpha, would Antonio be so destroyed right now?

“That’s correct,” Gilbert replies. “No dirt was found on either.”

“That seems a little unlikely, doesn’t it?”

“But possible,” Gilbert allows.

“Speaking of unlikely,” Arthur says as if he hadn’t spoken, “which pocket was the scrap of underwear found in?”

“The inside left,” Gilbert replies.

“Are you aware the defendant is right-handed?”

“I am actually aware of that, yes.”

“And that he was heavily intoxicated that night?”

“Yes.”

“So he tore the underwear and had the forethought, while intoxicated, to unzip his coat and place the scrap inside?”

To his credit, Francis looks rather mortified by all these hypotheticals. Gilbert holds up his hands. “I can’t objectively tell you what did or did not happen that night. I wasn’t there.”

Arthur arches an eyebrow. “Then tell us as an experienced SVU detective. Do you think it’s a likely line of events?”

Gilbert hesitates, then shakes his head a little. “No. It’s much more likely for someone to use an outer pocket, especially on a cold night.”

“What about in a warm office? What about if someone wanted to hide something even from the person wearing the coat, who might put his hands into the outer pockets?”

Gilbert glances at the jury, all of them hanging on Arthur’s every word. _I’m sorry, Toni._ “It’s possible.”

“What DNA was found on the underwear?”

“The victim’s.”

“None from Mr. Bonnefoy?”

“No.”

“Hmm.” Arthur leans to take a sip from the glass of water beside his notes. “Do you mind if I establish your credentials a tad? How many cases have you worked on, Detective?”

“Dozens, unfortunately. But I’m still young.” _More or less,_ he thinks, hoping Matthew tunes out for all of this response. “It’ll be hundreds by the time I retire.”

“How many rapes occur outside?”

Now Gilbert raises an eyebrow. “I don’t really memorize statistics like that.”

A slight scrunch to the snub nose. “Would you say the majority occur inside or outside?”

Gilbert considers. “Inside. But that’s because many occur between people already in relationships. Domestic assault is more common than people think.” Again, he hopes Matthew is daydreaming about happy things.

“Do rapists tend to favor a specific position?”

“In the cases I’ve dealt with, at least, penetration from behind was most popular.”

“Why is that?”

“Psychologically, it may be instinctual. It’s an animal pose. But realistically, it’s because that way the victim has less means of self-defense. The arms are easier to pin, the legs can’t kick out, the whole body can be pinned with the assailant’s weight, etc.”

“But Feliciano said Francis pinned him down on his back.”

“Just because it’s uncommon doesn’t mean it never happens that way.”

“Of the cases you’ve worked on, how many of the accused were convicted?”

“An extreme minority, sadly. Most rapes just don’t end in a conviction. If you asked a senior detective, he would tell you the same thing.”

 _Because of people like you,_ he thinks, even as another part of his mind admires Arthur for being good at his job. A tangled web. Perhaps Gilbert would have been better off building houses with his sire.

“Has an Alpha ever been falsely accused of rape?”

Before this case, Gilbert would have ranted about how no Omega would ever lie about something like that, about how much courage it takes to go through a rape exam, about how it trivializes the suffering real victims go through. But now, after hearing the evidence Arthur has stacked against the Italian Omegas, and after seeing the hate and doubt and distrust in Lovino’s eyes, Gilbert says only, “Not in my experience.”

Arthur shrugs. “Just because it’s uncommon doesn’t mean it never happens that way.” He hops off the table. “Nothing further.”

* * *

Arthur puts his best smile on for Matthew, partly because he’s genuinely grateful to Matthew for doing this but mostly because he doesn’t want the young Omega to get trapped in flashbacks to the last time they sat in these places.

“How do you know the defendant, Mr. Williams?”

Matthew’s eyes go to Francis. Thankfully, they hold no fear. “He represented me when I was sexually assaulted by Ivan Braginski.”

In his peripheral vision, Arthur sees some of the jurors widen their eyes. _Why yes, he’s not a demon, how about that._ “How did he act toward you during that process?”

“Always friendly and gentle. He never frightened me or touched me without my permission.”

“Did he say anything inappropriate?”

“No. Never.”

“Did he do anything at all that seemed untoward?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Did you know Mr. Bonnefoy before he became your lawyer?”

“No. I’d never met him.” A tiny, shy smile for the jury. “I’m not from around here.”

 _Bless._ Whether he’s being torn down or just presented as he is, Matthew is a lovely witness: sympathetic and genuine and easy on the eyes for any Alphas who might be dozing off. “How long would you say you’ve known him, then?”

“A couple months.”

“Based on his actions and personality in the time you’ve known him, do you believe the accusations against Francis are realistic?”

Matthew’s forehead wrinkles in thought. This is the one question Arthur didn’t ask in their preparation for the trial, because he honestly didn’t want to hear the answer. If Matthew said something negative against Francis, the best thing for Arthur to do would be to remove him as a witness. But he can’t do that to Matthew, after all the poor Omega’s been through. And besides, he said himself: he wants closure. So Arthur didn’t let the sleazy part of him control the outcome, and now he stands in front of a wildcard witness breaking the first rule of lawyering.

Everyone perks their ears at Matthew, waiting. Will another victim of assault be biased against an accused rapist?

Matthew presses his lips together, then shakes his head. “I don’t think he would do something like that.” Nervous but brave violet eyes meet Arthur’s. “I trusted him. I still do.”

Relief sighs out from Arthur’s quivering heart, and his smile comes easy as breathing. “Thank you so much, Mr. Williams. No further questions.”

* * *

As soon as Berwald calls the recess, Francis jumps to his feet. One of the jurors glances at him sharply, as if expecting him to run over and harm him. Francis offers an apologetic smile and turns away, trying to push down the sudden feeling of claustrophobia. He’s been sitting still for hours, having to keep his appearance measured beneath the endless judgmental gazes of—well, everyone in the room but Arthur. It never happened once when he was stuck in Arthur’s flat or office, but after sitting here for half a day, he’s feeling stir crazy.

“Let’s go somewhere,” he mumbles to Arthur, who is pouring himself another glass of water and absently asks _where_ without looking up.

Francis grasps his arm. “Anywhere but in here.”

He has Arthur’s attention now. The English Omega searches his face and must see the need in it, because he sets down the pitcher of water, closes his folder of notes, and leads Francis past the bar and out of the courtroom.

The lobby is a mess of people waiting for appointments and the next things on the docket—optimistic to think a sexual assault hearing won’t fill a full day—and Arthur and Antonio’s witnesses. Francis glimpses Gilbert and Matthew on the other side of the crowded room, but he doesn’t want to talk to them right now. _I trusted him. Not in my experience. I still do._ Francis doesn’t want to talk to anyone right now. He just wants to go somewhere away from prying eyes.

Arthur either senses this or feels the same way or both, because he turns away from the lobby and heads deeper into the courthouse. They duck past the staffroom and the bathrooms, and near the emergency exit they come across two doors Francis has never bothered looking at: a janitorial closet and an accessible bathroom with extra space for a wheelchair and handrails along the walls. For a brief second Francis considers how it’s a tad unfair that the washroom for people with disabilities is farthest away but then he’s being tugged inside and Arthur is locking the door.

“Uh,” Francis says, intelligently.

“If there was someone here to use this bathroom we’d have seen them in the lobby,” Arthur says, in the same professional, overly slick tone he’s been using on his witnesses.

Francis wants to loosen the tie around his neck, unbutton his cuffs, maybe run out into the snow for some big breaths of fresh air. Instead, he steps as close to Arthur as he dares—their suits mustn’t be wrinkled—and presses his face into his neck. After a pause, Arthur takes Francis’s hand in his own and cups his face with it so he can breathe in the scent gathered at his wrist. All Francis can think about is the tornado of questions and answers left behind in the courtroom, so he turns his brain off. _Just for a minute._ Nothing but the sweet, familiar relief of _Arthur._

“It’s going better than I thought it would,” Arthur murmurs. “Carriedo’s having a rough day.”

Francis considers saying _That’s what happens when people oppose you_ but he doesn’t want it to be taken the wrong way and he especially doesn’t want to say something at Antonio’s expense after watching so much despair go through those green eyes. Of course Francis wants this to all turn out to be based in lies, but if that is truly the case— _Oh, Toni._

“It’s going to be so hard on him if you’re right about Lovino,” Francis whispers. “He loves him. I don’t know if he’ll be able to forgive him.”

Arthur pulls back to look up at Francis. “I think you should be more concerned about whether or not _you_ can forgive him.”

“Who? Toni or Lovino?”

Arthur arches an eyebrow, but his eyes aren’t unkind. “Both.”

Francis lets his head droop. He hasn’t bothered thinking that far ahead—with his recent luck, even considering what might happen after he’s acquitted would translate into a surefire conviction. But if he’s free, if he returns to his life . . . will he be able to have lunch in the deli with Antonio again? Will his friend even want to talk to him? Or will Antonio turn his back on Francis forever, clinging to the claims of Lovino Vargas even after the judge says they’re false?

A touch to his cheek; Francis lifts his gaze. Arthur’s fingertips trail down his jaw, tickling his stubble, to rest beneath his chin. Arthur’s smile is soft. “We’ll get through it.”

He doesn’t specify what _it_ is, but he doesn’t need to. The first word is the most important. Francis leans to press their lips together, then again, and Arthur’s hand moves up to cover Francis’s mouth before they can get lost in each other.

“Better?” Arthur asks.

Francis nods. “Better.”

Francis steps out first this time, and he makes it two steps before—while glancing over his shoulder to ensure his Omega is following—he walks right into someone. He staggers back, apology on his lips before he even sees his victim. “Oh, sorry—”

Antonio stares at him, then at Arthur. Francis sees the cogs turning: two people coming out of one washroom. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist. “What were you doing in there?”

“My client was feeling very anxious,” Arthur replies, stepping stoutly between them. “So I took him somewhere private, to calm down.”

Antonio opens his mouth, but freezes. The momentum of Arthur’s movement has brought his scent to the Spanish Alpha’s nose; he’s probably smelling the lack of cologne. His brow furrows. “You smell different, Kirkland.”

“Thanks for noticing,” Arthur says dryly.

The look Antonio gives him is one Francis has seen before but has never liked. “You smell like each other.”

Francis’s heart quivers, but Arthur doesn’t miss a beat: “I would assume so. We’ve been living in the same flat for the past month.”

Antonio’s gaze slides back and forth between them. Francis tries to keep fear from his face, but he suspects he’s creating more in its place with the effort. Arthur only glares, arms crossed over his chest.

When it becomes clear neither of them are going to speak, Francis breaks the silence. “We should be getting back.”

“Yes,” Arthur says immediately. One eyebrow rises. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

Back in the courtroom, as soon as Berwald calls the court to session again Antonio requests to approach the bench. He and Arthur walk up, leaving Francis alone to watch with everyone else as Arthur and Berwald both grow more and more irritated at whatever Antonio is saying. Francis’s nerves are beginning to seriously fray by the time Antonio steps back to his table. Arthur stays where he is, hands fisted at his sides. Francis doesn’t have time to wonder why.

“The state calls,” Antonio says, “Arthur Kirkland to the stand.”

* * *

Ludwig’s apartment is, surprisingly, smaller than Alfred’s and about as far from Alfred’s and Arthur’s places as it can get without leaving the city limits. It’s a little one-bedroom above a store that sells books on one side and, rather inexplicably, leather jackets and boots on the other. Ludwig leads Alfred up an external staircase on the back of the building. Alfred admires the slope of the German Alpha’s shoulders as he bows his head to slide his key in the lock. Absently, Alfred wonders how Arthur and Francis are doing. He can’t do anything more for them, now. He feels a bit guilty, even though he knows it’s not his fault there was nothing to be found to help Francis. He feels like he should have done more. So it’s partly to distract himself from that feeling of impotence that he’s walking into Ludwig’s home right now. That, and because Ludwig mentioned he’s been having technical difficulties with his entertainment setup, so Alfred jumped to offer help even though he doesn’t know much beyond where to stick an HDMI cable.

“Excuse the mess,” Ludwig says, even though Alfred can’t see anything that would qualify as a mess. There are no socks and empty cereal boxes on the floor, so it’s a damn sight cleaner than Alfred’s homestead.

“Don’t worry about that,” Alfred says. “I like an informal atmosphere.”

“I know,” Ludwig says, without glancing at him, and Alfred is incredibly warmed by how scoldingly fond it sounds.

Alfred watches his big Germanic hands as he boots up his laptop, reconnects the wires leading to the television. “Here, lemme see, maybe it’s damaged,” Alfred says, and steps beside Ludwig to lean in closer. He can feel their sides touching, but Ludwig doesn’t move back, just holds the wires up for Alfred to inspect. He can feel each breath of Ludwig’s, his ribs expanding against Alfred’s then sinking away. It’s hardly surprising when Alfred’s gaze drifts again to Ludwig’s hands, then to his forearms, then his chest, and finally his face barely six inches away. He can’t read whatever emotion is in those sharp blue eyes, but Ludwig isn’t pulling back, and his thin lips are _right there._

 _Fuck it._ Courage—

Alfred kisses him.

It lingers, then lingers some more. There’s not _nothing_ there, but Alfred can’t tell what the something is. Ludwig’s lips are mostly still against his—then his hands are warming Alfred’s shoulders, and _God_ it’s been so long since someone strong held him . . .

Then Alfred realizes the hands are there because Ludwig is trying to push Alfred away, so Alfred steps back, horrified. “Oh, shit—I’m sorry, I thought—I misread—”

Ludwig’s face is red as a beat. “No, I—I should have told you, I’m sorry, I’m not . . .”

“Not gay?” Alfred forces a smile. “That’s okay. Not everyone can be lucky as me.”

Ludwig opens his mouth—Alfred feels guilty seeing some spit he left behind—then closes it, then opens it again to say, “I didn’t realize you . . . you wanted—”

“No! No, it’s not like that. I like you,” Alfred says quickly. “I wasn’t just looking for sex, God no. I’d still wanna friends with you, if you want that too. I just—I mean, you’re really hot. Like, seriously.”

Ludwig clears his throat, still blushing. “Thank you.”

Alfred rubs the back of his neck. “God. Sorry. I try not to go around kissing straight guys, you know. They usually don’t talk to me afterward. Sometimes they give me something a lot worse than a cold shoulder.” He glances at Ludwig’s muscled arms. “You’re not gonna do that, are you?”

The German Alpha startles. “No, of course not. I would never hurt someone.”

“Cool, good. Thanks.” Alfred takes a deep breath in, intending to sigh it back out—but stops. He moves closer to Ludwig, sniffing the air. It’s incredibly faint, but he can smell the musk of him; he must’ve enjoyed the kiss or the closeness on some level, then. But the scent . . . it’s almost, not-quite familiar. Where would he have smelled Ludwig before? And not just Ludwig, but the deep-set, core scent of him?

Ludwig’s brow furrows, naturally weirded out by someone kissing him and then sniffing him. Alfred smiles, sheepish. “I’m sorry, you just smell really—”

Then it hits him, all at once, the way a scent can transport you straight to a memory. The church. The basement. The tiny room, with the cot. Writing in his notepad. _ALPHA SCENT._ One he’d never smelled before. And now, here? How?

“Okay, this is gonna sound bizarre,” Alfred says, half dreading and half hoping, “but do you know Feliciano Vargas?”

The answer is irrelevant. What matters is the look on Ludwig’s face: surprise, recognition, affection, worry, fear.

 _Goddamn._ “You have to be totally honest with me. How do you know him?”

Ludwig steps backward. “I don’t think—”

 _“Listen.”_ Alfred comes after him, bringing back that feeling of uselessness to add intensity. “There’s a trial happening right now because Feliciano accused someone of raping him. If you know anything that can keep that Alpha out of jail, you need to speak up right now.”

Ludwig’s eyes go so wide Alfred can see white all around them. “I . . . we . . . I was there as a curate, I was training to be a priest, but Feli . . .” He shakes his head, cutting to the chase at the look on Alfred’s face. “We ma—had sex.”

“Well, he’s pregnant,” Alfred tells him. “And he’s trying to save his ass by putting someone else in prison.”

Typical Alpha, there’s something protective on his face. “He can’t be pregnant,” he protests. “I wouldn’t have left if he was. I didn’t—” Now he’s blushing again. “. . . inside.”

Alfred raises his eyebrows. “Dude. That never works, didn’t you pay attention in sex ed?” Then he remembers what the schools are like around here. “Never mind, stupid question. We gotta get outta here, you need to get on a witness stand right now.”

Alfred can imagine this is a lot to take in—he can relate; he can’t believe he just kissed a baby priest—but Ludwig doesn’t delay. Despite the conflicting emotions inside him, Ludwig inclines his head. Whether it’s to save Francis or Feliciano, it doesn’t matter.

“Okay,” the German Alpha says. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Arthur cannot believe this was allowed to happen. He’s never sat on the witness stand before, and he’s not excited by it. It’s rare that a judge will allow a lawyer to call his opposition to testify, and Berwald made it very clear that Antonio is to keep his questions professional and to the point. Arthur knows what _the point_ is, and he now gets why Alphas like bearing their teeth. He’d like to sink his into this bloody bullfighter.

“Is is true that you and your client have lived together since he was arrested?”

“Yes. As part of his bail conditions.”

“Has Francis made any advances toward you during that time?”

“No.” Arthur wonders if this is the first time he’s blatantly lied to a jury. In a way, it’s true. When the time came, it was Arthur who came onto Francis. If Antonio thinks he’s going to get Arthur to admit to mating Francis and thus have himself removed from Francis’s case, he’s got another thing coming.

“He didn’t flirt with you?”

“No.”

“Did you notice him flirting with any other Omega?”

“No.”

“Would you describe yourself as sexually promiscuous?”

_You’re a slut._

_You like that?_

_Worthless trollop._

_So beautiful._

_WHORE._

Arthur’s heart skips a beat.

“Objection!”

Arthur and Antonio both look over at Francis, who has bolted to his feet and stands glaring at Antonio, all of him aggressive in the same way he was in the DA office, shoulders tensed and lips pulled.

“Mr. Bonnefoy,” Berwald rumbles, brow low on his eyes. “Take your seat and try to control any future outbursts.”

Francis deflates a bit, but he only sits back down when Arthur nods to him. Then Arthur turns to Antonio and says, channeling anger from the pain in his chest, “Objection.”

“Sustained.” The judge gives Antonio a deeply disapproving stare. “This is your last warning, counselor. If you have no proof of what you’re implying, let’s stop derailing this trial.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow at Antonio, just enough to show how smug he is. The Spanish Alpha can come right out and ask if Arthur and Francis just fucked in the washroom, but it will never be accepted because there will never be proof. Antonio has painted himself into a corner now. Arthur wonders if this is the last ditch attempt to claw out of Antonio’s pit of desperation. _You lose,_ Arthur thinks. _Just accept it and move on._

Impressive for that thought to be coming from him, but there it is.

Whatever Antonio has built himself up with crumbles. It’s actually a little sad to see. Arthur wonders if he’s gone irreparably soft. He hopes not. He can handle being polite and friendly, but sympathizing with Antonio Carriedo is too far.

“Your Honor,” Antonio says, “I—”

_“Objection!”_

Some people glance at Francis, but he’s silent now, twisting in his chair. Everyone watches the main doors of the courtroom crash open, revealing Alfred of all people and a tall, blond Alpha Arthur’s never seen before.

“Oh—howdy, folks,” Alfred says, smiling at the sudden attention. He holds up a pretentious cup of coffee to Arthur and Antonio. “Sorry for stealing your lawyer thunder, guys, I’ve just always wanted to say _objection_ in a courtroom.” He lifts his chin to address Berwald all the way across the room. “This is Ludwig Beilschmidt, priest-in-training, and he’s the sire of Feliciano Vargas’s unborn child, so if we could get him up on the witness stand . . .”

If he says anything else, it’s lost to the furor of the room. The jury exchange shocked questions and those in the gallery demand answers of Alfred, Ludwig, Dr. Honda, and Gilbert, the latter of which can only stare at his little brother as if seeing a ghost.

“Order!” Berwald pounds his gavel. “I thought I made myself clear that there would be no outbursts.” He gives the lawyers a sidelong look. “If this is some kind of performance—”

Under that menacing gaze, they both shake their heads vigorously with identical rounded green eyes.

Berwald turns to address the intruders. “Come forward, both of you.” When they stand at the gate of the bar, Berwald asks, “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“I’m Alfred Jones,” says Alfred Jones. “A private detective. I work for Mr. Kirkland. I apologize for barging in, but—and I think Mr. Bonnefoy will agree—this is pretty important.”

“And you claim to be the sire of the victim’s baby,” Berwald says.

Ludwig nods, solemn. “If I had known about this case, I would have come forward long ago.”

“Would’ve been helpful,” Arthur mutters under his breath. The court stenographer glances at him and he shakes his head.

“Your Honor,” Antonio says, gesturing at Ludwig, “he can’t be called when he’s not on the approved witness list.”

Francis clears his throat quietly. Arthur glances over. The French Alpha holds up one of his blank pieces of paper—or it would be blank, if not for the words quickly scrawled across it.

“Oh,” Arthur says, then clears his throat and says more firmly, “The defense calls Mr. Beilschmidt as a rebuttal witness.”

Antonio throws up his hands. “I’m confused, who is acting lawyer here?”

“If you’re having trouble keeping track,” Arthur says sweetly, “perhaps you shouldn’t call an attorney to the stand.”

Alfred arches an eyebrow at Francis, who nods gravely. _Yep, this bad._

“That’s enough, out of all of you.” Berwald takes his glasses off to squeeze the bridge of his nose. “I’m calling a ten-minute recess, so everyone can compose themselves. When we come back, Mr. Beilschmidt will take the stand, and Feliciano Vargas will be brought in to confirm or refute his testimony. And hopefully this case will find its end.”

* * *

At Matthew’s insistence, Gilbert follows Ludwig into the washroom. _Gil, you have to talk to him. You look kinda scary._ Not intimidating, Gilbert knows from the concerned violet eyes, but . . . unhinged. He was already worried about Francis and Antonio, and now this revelation on top of that? He needs closure, immediately, and Matthew recognizes that a lot faster than Gilbert would have. The benefit of being in love with someone much more fluent with emotions.

When he walks in to see his little brother—not so little now, at all—washing his hands at the sink, Gilbert is shocked to feel so much anger rising inside him. Only a few days ago he was wishing for happiness for his brother, and now he could strangle him.

“I can’t believe you were so close and you never told me,” he says. “Where did you meet Feliciano?”

Ludwig’s shoulders tense slightly. He turns the taps off and glances over his shoulder at Gilbert. “At the church, here, in town.”

Gilbert can’t take how unapologetic he is. Not insolent, just maddeningly matter-of-fact. “You were _in town_ and you never thought to look me up? I haven’t moved out of the house.”

“I didn’t think you were mad about it.” Ludwig tears off some paper towel to dry his hands. “You never tried to look _me_ up. And you’re a detective.”

Gilbert falls silent. It’s true, if Ludwig was this close he could’ve found him after some digging. Then again, if Ludwig only moved back here from his soul-searching recently, Gilbert has been far too distracted by Matthew’s case and welfare to worry about disappearing brothers. In the time that Ludwig was staying at the church, within walking distance of Gilbert’s house, the graves in the cemetery could’ve opened up and let corpses stroll the streets and Gilbert wouldn’t have noticed.

“I didn’t want you to know I was here,” Ludwig admits, at last looking a bit guilty. “I didn’t want anyone to think of me as _Gilbert’s brother._ ”

“Thanks,” Gilbert says, offended.

“Not because I’m ashamed of you,” Ludwig says quickly. “The opposite. I don’t want anyone spreading rumors about you, or me . . . though I guess that’s inevitable now. And I . . .” He scuffs his shoe across the tiles. “I guess I was afraid to see you.”

“Why?”

“Because then I would know that I made the wrong decision.” Ludwig sighs, head bowed. “Everyone always compared us when we were pups. You always said you wanted to be a detective, always. You always knew what you wanted to be.”

 _No, I didn’t._ “I wanted to find my birth parents,” Gilbert says softly. “By the time I got a badge, I was more interested in helping other people than myself.”

Ludwig just lifts a _there you go_ hand as if that proves his point. “I thought about becoming a police officer, too, but I knew it would just mean more of the same. Comparison. I felt like I was never as good as you at anything.”

“So you trained to be a—priest?” Gilbert says, working to keep his voice toneless.

“Don’t get me wrong. I don’t regret finding faith.” Ludwig’s gaze drifts. “But . . . the path I’m on isn’t the way I want my life to go.”

Gilbert considers the options Ludwig holds in his hands: becoming a reverend, likely with no pups and definitely with no mate, or pair-bonding with an Omega a decade younger than him and raising his pup as best he can. “Well. Do you love Feliciano?”

Ludwig’s cheeks turn pink and they’re kids again, Gilbert teasing little Luddy for having a crush on a fifth grader. “I think so.”

Gilbert gives him half a smile. “Then it’s a good thing you came here today.”

“Yes, it is.”

They stand there a moment, silent under the weight of the truths Ludwig’s presence has brought. _Francis is innocent,_ Gilbert realizes, almost anticlimactic. He thought he would be stuck always wondering, but this pretty much confirms that his friend was wrongly accused. He’s more concerned with Ludwig’s admission: _I was never as good as you._ He knows Ludwig felt purposeless growing up—enough that he came to loathe their parents, even if he never put it directly into words—but he didn’t know Ludwig was jealous of Gilbert.

“Hey,” he says, “did Mutti ever tell you what he said when you were born?”

“After twelve hours of labor?” Ludwig shakes his head. “Nothing I’m allowed to repeat, probably.”

Gilbert laughs. “He said _Better late than never._ ”

Ludwig looks at him, a decade of self-loathing flashing through bright blue eyes. Gilbert glimpses the shine of tears before Ludwig grabs him into a tight, almost crushing embrace. Even after all this time, Ludwig still smells like family.

Outside, a muffled voice snaps, “I don’t care what’s written on this goddamn door!” Then Arthur comes barging in, fierce as a wildcat. “Are you loitering in here for your health? Have your bloody heartfelt reunion after I’m done litigating, for God’s sake.”

* * *

Because Ludwig is Arthur’s witness, it falls to him to bring them home. With Feliciano and Lovino standing off to the side, a broad bailiff between them, Arthur begins the end.

“Mr. Beilschmidt,” he says, hands clasped neatly behind his back, “have you had sexual intercourse with Feliciano Vargas?”

The jury doesn’t like it—muttering amongst themselves—but Ludwig’s blue gaze stays fixated on Arthur. “Yes.”

“Did you ejaculate during the intercourse?”

Ears red, Ludwig nods once. “Yes.”

“Where did this occur?”

Ludwig’s gaze wavers, perhaps tempted to seek Roma in the gallery. “In my guest room, in the church.”

 _Wow._ Arthur has to stifle a snort. “Did you tell Feliciano to keep it a secret?”

“We agreed not to tell anyone,” Ludwig replies. “It was against the rules for both of us.”

“Did you conspire to accuse Francis Bonnefoy of rape to cover up your actions?”

“No. I knew none of this had happened. I didn’t even know he was pregnant, or this wouldn’t be happening right now.”

 _There’s that, at least._ Not all religious people put a foul taste in Arthur’s mouth, evidently. “So you intend to take responsibility for the pup?”

“Yes.” A rather shy glance at Feliciano. “If I’m allowed.”

Arthur turns to the Italian Omegas. “Feliciano, it’s your testimony that you were raped by Francis Bonnefoy that night. Is this accurate information?”

It’s nothing but tears now. Beside him, Lovino looks glassy-eyed, far away from the courtroom he stands in. After a moment of trembling, Feliciano says, “No. It’s n-not true.”

“Is it true that you mated with Ludwig?”

“Yes.”

“Is it true that you lied in order to maintain your status in the church?”

Feliciano covers his face with his hands. Lovino’s hazel gaze shifts to Arthur, and it’s in a hollow voice he says, “I didn’t want to lose another family.”

Arthur comes within an inch of blurting out _Some families are better off lost_ but he keeps his mouth shut. “Then you admit to committing perjury in this court.”

It’s delayed by sadness, but the brothers both incline their heads and say, “Yes.”

Berwald rolls his shoulders back beneath his robes, even more solemn than usual. “In light of these new statements, I see no reason to delay the finding of Francis Bonnefoy as innocent. And so something else will be accomplished today, I’ll set a court date for the Vargases.”

“Your Honor?”

Berwald stares at Ludwig, serious blue eyes meeting serious blue eyes.

“May I step down?”

“. . . You may.”

With that, Ludwig goes straight for Feliciano, wrapping his arms around him. The Omega melts into him, weeping into his shirt. Arthur has never seen a look of such intense relief on someone’s face; he wonders if he looked like that when he curled into Francis. He knows how Feliciano feels, in a way. He glances over at Francis, who smiles, on the verge of relieved tears himself. Arthur returns the smile. Abandoned, but found again.

* * *

Lovino has never been in shock before, but he thinks he is now. Everything feels distant and muffled; he thinks his ears might be ringing. This is the nightmare he wanted to avoid by creating a less dark dream, but here they are, stuck where they can’t wake up.

Feliciano has Ludwig, though. Who does Lovino have?

He didn’t think he’d be heartbroken—didn’t think he was still capable of this paralyzing emotion—but here he is.

In the lobby, Roma stares out the window. Feliciano hangs back with Ludwig, clinging to him like a cat with his claws stuck in. Lovino walks to the reverend, but when he gets there he can’t bring himself to speak.

The silence stretches. _I’m a criminal. I’m a monster._

Without moving, Roma asks in a flat tone, “Is it true?”

Lovino remembers. Walking alone, at night. (He didn’t want to wake his brother.) Finding Francis, stumbling through the shadows. (So drunk he didn’t recognize Lovino.) Asking him, _Are you okay?_ (No real response, just something garbled that might’ve been French.) Returning home, finding his little brother tossing and turning in his sleep, troubled even in dreams by the mistake he’d made. _(I’m so sorry, Lovi. I didn’t think, I—I don’t know what to do!)_ Deciding. Planting. Lying. Protecting, because that’s what a big brother is supposed to do.

“Yes,” Lovino rasps, barely audible.

A slight tremor from Roma, perhaps a shudder of disgust. His voice remains toneless. “Get your things from the house. And Feliciano’s. I won’t have children of sin under my roof.”

There was a tiny, tiny part of Lovino that hoped, even from the start of all this, that Roma Vargas would not do this.

But if Lovino believed that, none of this would’ve been necessary. He’s doing precisely what Lovino knew he would, and he’s doing it with the justification of a belief Lovino scorns, but it still slices straight through his heart. Will Roma cry about this, like Lovino and Feliciano will (and have)? Perhaps, but it will be with the same muted sadness all the members of the congregation share. The _oh, what a shame_ sadness. Contempt framed neatly by walls of scripture, unbreakable and too slippery with blood to climb.

Lovino wants to beg, but he won’t. He won’t sink to his knees for this Alpha. If it’s a love that can be lost so easily, he knows it’s not worth it. But the instinct is still there. _Please._

Without another word—without even a glance at his adopted family—the reverend walks out of the courthouse.

The others are here now, Francis and Antonio, Ludwig and Feliciano, lingering while the jury members file out. There are too many faces for Lovino to focus on, and too many emotions inside him to fit more in, so at least he can’t be embarrassed by the tears staining his cheeks.

“Francis.” This is from Feliciano, whose voice sounds even worse than Lovino’s. His eyes are so red they look almost painful. “I-I’m sorry.”

Lovino looks from the Francis to Antonio, both of whom wear conflicted expressions of sympathy and vexation—but it’s a ratio significantly favoring the former. His whisper comes out broken, but Lovino doesn’t know how else to show how horrible he feels. On the other side of this, it felt almost powerful—in the foster system, survival means taking advantage of easy targets—but now he sees the reality what he’s done. He’s failed.

He says, “I’m so sorry.”

Francis glances at Arthur, then at Antonio, two sets of green eyes imploring two different things. “You did what you felt you had to do,” he says, slowly putting the words together. “I—” His mouth twists. “I understand.”

Lovino is almost glad Francis didn’t say _I forgive you,_ because it’s too fast. It wouldn’t seem genuine. Understanding is more than enough. Gilbert gave it before; Francis gives it now. Lovino wipes more tears from his eyes, nodding. His voice is gone, but perhaps that’s for the better.

This way, he can’t use it to hurt anyone.

* * *

Francis is hoping for movie scene brightness—perhaps even an unseasonably warm afternoon to synchronize thematically—but when he steps outside it’s just as cold as it was on the way in this morning, and it’s still snowing, albeit from a partially cloudy sky so the world is one of chilly sparkles.

Not that Francis feels the cold, anyway. He’s far too elated for that.

 _Freedom._ None of the iffy, shaky, _well I was acquitted but I’ll still wonder about that night for the rest of my life_ sort. The veil is lifted, and though it’s ugly beneath, it has nothing to do with Francis—just as he knew, instinctively, when Gilbert first told him what he’d been accused of.

In the parking lot, Francis and Gilbert and Antonio converge as if blown together by the breeze. The tortured, shuffling silences are no more. The words practically burst from Antonio: “I’m sorry. I know I was doing my job, so don’t say that. I just—should have trusted you.”

“If it makes you feel better,” Francis says, “I didn’t trust me, either.”

They give half-hearted smiles, testing the waters, reluctant to rejoice so soon.

“I was afraid you’d never talk to me again,” Francis admits.

Antonio shakes his head. “I was afraid I wouldn’t, too.”

They smile again, more certain this time. Gilbert nudges Francis with his shoulder. “I think this is grounds for celebration, don’t you? It worked out a lot better than all the best-case scenarios I thought of.”

“Same,” Antonio says, despite everything.

Francis can only agree. “I’d rather not drink, though.”

Adamant nods from both his friends. “Wanna come to my place for dinner?” Gilbert asks.

“Only if I’m doing the cooking,” Francis replies, mostly teasing (but also completely serious).

“Whatever you want. It might be a little crowded . . .”

Francis follows the red-grey gaze over to where Ludwig is standing with Feliciano, Lovino, and Matthew. Matthew has a comforting arm around Lovino, and Ludwig has yet to let go of his Omega. Francis is most relieved by that, aside from the obvious gratitude that he isn’t en route to a prison cell right now. _Feli and his pup deserve someone to look after them._ Who is he kidding, really? _Everyone deserves someone to look after them._

As if sensing the attention, Lovino glances over. Antonio’s smile fades, but he slips it back on for Gilbert: “Sure, the more the merrier.”

“Oh, speaking of—” Francis turns.

Arthur stands on the courthouse steps with Alfred, still hassled by the reporters. It was self-sacrifice on their part; Arthur told Francis to go on ahead, and before Francis could protest his mate was lost to the swarm. He’s glad for it. Arthur handles them much better than Francis would, and Alfred is even better: both of them are dashing and quick-tongued, and as such the media eats them up. Francis can tell that Arthur isn’t enjoying himself, however, so he waves until he snags Alfred’s attention and beckons. With some charming words and a good grasp on Arthur’s arm, Alfred parts the journalists like a sea and delivers the English Omega in record time.

“We’re going to Gil’s for dinner,” Francis tells them. “And celebration.”

Arthur looks up at him, blinking snowflakes from his eyelashes. “Alright. Have fun.”

“I’m inviting you,” Francis says, amused. _Silly lion._

Arthur’s eyes widen. Alfred chuckles. “Better get used to ’em now, Art, those are your brother-in-laws.” Then he slaps a hand over his mouth, theatrical. “Oh, oops, did I say that out loud?”

Gilbert and Antonio raise an identical eyebrow at Francis, who just smiles unabashedly and offers a hand to Arthur. “Will you come, mon amour?”

Arthur hesitates, eyes flitting round the circle of Alphas he stands in as if searching for ridicule or rejection, but Arthur’s more recent treatment of Matthew has smoothed things over from the last in Gilbert’s eyes, and Antonio’s animosity was only a last-ditch effort to pull his head above water. So Arthur twines his fingers with Francis. “Jones has to come, too,” he says, perfectly calm as if his hand isn’t secretly quivering against Francis’s. “If he’s left alone too long he starts chewing the furniture.”

Alfred throws his arms around Francis’s and, despite the rather indignant quirk to his brow, Gilbert’s shoulders. “Hey, I brought the other Beilschmidt in, so I expect MVP treatment.”

Arthur arches an eyebrow. “Yes, how exactly did you find him?”

Alfred shakes his head, demurring immediately. “Long, boring story. Not interesting in the slightest.” He perks up. “But I did hear you guys say _dinner,_ right? As in, the sooner we get outta here the sooner we eat? Let’s hit the road!”

And with that, their convoy—Alfred and Ludwig with Feliciano and Lovino, Gilbert with Matthew, and Antonio riding solo—evacuates the premises, off to block each other into the Beilschmidt estate’s driveway. Francis and Arthur sit in the Omega’s car, turned on to warm them but remaining in park while Arthur squeezes the steering wheel.

“Well,” he says, still cloaking his relief and excitement and nerves in this offhand tone. “I suppose that’s that, then.”

Francis leans over the center console and kisses him, hard. Arthur returns it, a hand rising up to Francis’s neck, and when he finally pulls back he’s breathless. “What was that for?”

“For being a perfect mate,” Francis replies, smiling. “And an excellent lawyer.”

“Oh.” Arthur clears his throat. “Well, thanks, but I’m still expecting you to pay your fees.”

“What—”

Arthur cranks the rock station loud enough to almost hide the fact that they’re both laughing, at last free to be as happy—and happily in love—as they please.


	16. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was only a marginal attempt at legal realism but I still want to express thanks to LegalEagle on YouTube for being both educational and entertaining. Good stuff!
> 
> And, last but not least, many thanks for all the support and theories. Y'all have been absolutely beautiful <3

**ONE YEAR LATER**

 

Spring has sprung and Mikkel is whistling. It’s a song about blue skies and bluebirds, one his dam used to sing to him while they went for walks through the garden. He hasn’t thought about his childhood with such fondness in the past—a good chunk of it was clouded by a feeling of inferiority to his sire—but the past few months have recontextualized a lot for him. He understands, sort of, where his sire was coming from when he wanted nothing but the best from him. He understands, mostly, why his dam felt the need to call him every weekend once he’d left for law school. And he understands, wholly, why his mate wanted to have pups. He doesn’t know if it’s a biological, instinctual thing or an actual sign of maturity and a life goal, _this is my legacy_ affair. Put it this way: he’s spent the past two weeks doing nothing but decking out one of their spare bedrooms with all the facets of a nursery and he couldn’t be happier about it.

And he does feel better about the whole thing now that he met their sperm donor. Lukas told him it was incredibly immature, but he was quite pleased to find that his replacement— _Mikkel Densen, if you keep saying replacement I’ll replace your mouth with a piece of duct tape_ —was four inches shorter than him. Plus the Alpha is just a genuinely nice, laidback fellow. Not sleazy or snobby like Mikkel worried. Like him, almost, if he was the sort of person to happily walk around in a sweater vest.

Mikkel straightens up, whistling the final note of the song and sighing in satisfaction as he takes in the nursery. There’s something very pioneer about building a bed for your child, even if it is a crib he bought in a box and put together by following instructions (once Lukas won the argument about how _it’ll go so much faster if you just read these, Mick_ ). It’s a lovely room, done in blue because blue is the best color, but it’s not finished yet. It has baby clothes, a changing station, a mobile, dragons and wolves painted on the walls and starry clouds on the ceiling. He’s not quite sure what it’s missing. _Well, a baby,_ he thinks, and grins to himself.

“I finished my carpentry,” Mikkel calls, wandering downstairs. “Where did my one true love go?” He glances into the living room and sees no one, so he heads into the kitchen and is reaching up for a glass—nothing alcoholic, he’s sacrificed drinking so as not to taunt his mate—when he spies the note on the island. He swirls his fingers fondly over the black marble as he reads ever familiar handwriting: _Outside._ And a little heart in the corner.

Out Mikkel goes. The afternoon is expiring, but it’s not cooled off yet and the sun is valiantly fighting to keep its throne in the sky. The backyard has a brand-new fence around the perimeter, a side effect of the main attraction: a large hot tub at the eastern edge of their deck. Lukas is sitting in it, watching him with a warm, content smile. Mikkel lets his lips curl to match it.

“There you are,” Mikkel says. “I finished making the crib. Now you finish making the pup.”

“I’ll get back to you in a few months,” Lukas says, hands on his belly. “How are you enjoying your vacation?”

“Oh, it’s great.” And, believe it or not, it actually is. He’s barely thought of the firm once since he’s left it in the more than capable hands of Lars and the other partners. “A guy could get used to living like this.” He steps over to dip his fingers into the lovely warm water. “How are you enjoying your anniversary present?”

Lukas’s eyes smile more than his mouth. “I’d like it a lot more with you in here.”

“That so?” Mikkel gives him a wink. “Let me go get changed.”

“Oh.” Lukas sinks deeper into the water, lids growing heavier and voice dipping seductively. “You don’t have to wear anything.”

Mikkel smirks, leaving his clothing in a pile on the deck and climbing into the hot tub. They kiss, one of Mikkel’s hands cupping Lukas’s face and the other cupping his bulging belly. His mate has always been gorgeous, but now he’s just stunning, breathtaking. All of him is so fertile and alive, blooming and luscious and, yes, glowing. Any microscopic part of him that might have been tempted to seek something _new and exciting_ has been effectively terminated. Lukas is his, his forever, and soon they’ll hear the proof in little pattering feet.

“I’m serious this time.” Mikkel pulls back to look at his mate, who is of course not wearing anything but water. “Stop being so goddamn beautiful.”

Lukas raises an eyebrow slightly. “Are you just saying that because I’m pregnant?”

“No, that’s just the icing on the cake.” Mikkel nuzzles into his neck.

“You say that now.”

Mikkel chuckles. “Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet.”

“Mmm. None of me is cold right now.”

Mikkel looks up at his mate, at his closed eyes, head tipped back slightly, lips peacefully curled upward, all of him so sexy and content and perfect. _Did I make him this happy? Did I do that?_ If there’s anything he’d like credit for, it’s that. A small smile on pale lips.

“Keep me warm, kære,” he rumbles, and they drown in each other.

* * *

“Hana! Hana!”

“Stay where we can see you, nappi,” Tino calls, watching Peter chase after their little white dog. Both of them are puppies, and now that it’s spring and they’re known to come back from adventures covered in mud, it’s hard to tell them apart. Of course, Peter and Hana are inseparable; she never runs too fast for him and he never pulls her fur. Tino was worried, at first, that they might not respect each other’s boundaries, but their friendship has turned out to be a beautiful thing.

“He’ll be fine,” Berwald says, twining their fingers and kissing Tino’s knuckles. Their rings clink together, the jewel on Tino’s pricking against Berwald’s finger, but he doesn’t mind. It’s a reminder that they’re together. _In sickness and in health._ “The yard is puppy-proofed.”

This is true. After Hana’s adoption this past Christmas, they went around their property—which turned out to be larger than Berwald originally thought, extending several meters into the woods—and made sure there were no gullies or bees’ nests or anything else a young creature might be harmed by. Tino suggested a white picket fence, but Berwald doesn’t like the idea of a cage. So, as a compromise, Peter made little flags all the colors of the rainbow and Berwald laminated and nailed them to the ring of trees that mark the edge of their home. Though most who know him would never think it, Berwald prefers all the colors over black and white.

Today is the warmest Sunday of spring so far, and to celebrate they’re sitting on a blanket and eating picnic sandwiches from paper plates. Well, Tino is sitting; Berwald is sprawled, head resting in Tino’s lap, eyes closed against the sun. Peter’s sandwich is half-eaten on his plate, left behind when he and Hana ran off to chase a butterfly.

“I love you,” Tino says, fingertips stroking through Berwald’s (still thinning) hair.

Berwald isn’t sure if he’s talking to him or Peter or all of them, but he still murmurs, “I love you too.” He opens his eyes just in time to see Tino leaning down and they share a kiss, strange but not bad with Tino above Berwald for once. It deepens after a moment; the angle might be hard to manage for others, but they’ve long since learned every part of each other.

“Papa!” They pull apart as Peter crashes over, skidding to a halt at the edge of the blanket with Hana jumping around him. “We’re playing tag!” He pokes Berwald’s leg and dances away. “You’re it!”

Tino tries in vain to grab the sandwich before Hana snatches it up. He tuts but doesn’t bother scolding—today is too sweet for such things—before he turns to Berwald. “Don’t exert yourself.”

“I’m fine.” He says this just as his back pops, and he stifles a grimace as he pushes himself, with some difficulty, to his feet. He twists a little from left to right, easing the stiffness from his muscles.

Tino gives a sympathetic smile. “Are you okay, dear?”

“It’s fine,” Berwald says again, and touches his mate’s cheek to soften the stoic words. Then he chases after their pup, Peter giggling and Hana yipping and Berwald’s heart singing: _It’s perfect._

* * *

“Do you want a giraffe?” Matthew coos, offering the little cookie. “Can you say giraffe?”

“Fuh,” says Romeo, reaching with tiny fingers to accept the gift.

“What do you say,” Feliciano prompts, a grin already spreading across his face.

“Tata,” the pup says, and shoves the animal cracker into his mouth. He’s still teething, and according to both Alphas in their house it was a maddening process when they were kids. The doctor claims there’s no scientific reason for Alphas to have more instinct to bite than Omegas, but so far Romeo has followed in his sire’s footsteps—in that if he’s crying, chances are good he’ll feel better with something to chew on.

“What a polite little gentleman,” Matthew says, smoothing down the flyaway curl Romeo inherited from his dam. He picks up another cracker. “Oh, a scary lion, can you say lion?”

In the kitchen, Gilbert and Ludwig lean against the counter, both watching with fond smiles. Their mates sit together on the carpet, Romeo plopped between them, basking in the attention of not one but _two_ loving Omegas. Gilbert has never seen a baby with such a winning smile. He hopes he never gets into an argument with the little creature, because he has no idea how he could say no to that face. Ludwig is made of stronger stuff than him.

But of course, when he glances at his brother, there’s nothing but helpless happiness on his face. “It’s nice to see,” Gilbert remarks, nodding to their little pocket of family.

Ludwig blinks as if drawn from deep thought. “Hm? What is?”

Gilbert raises an eyebrow. “Well, Matt happy. Feli happy. A healthy pup. All good news.”

“Oh, yes.” Ludwig nods. “Yes, it is.”

Gilbert watches him patiently until Ludwig admits, “I just never thought it would end up like this, that’s all. I’m still getting used to it.”

“Ah. Well, so am I.”

Voice ducking down a little, Ludwig asks, “Do you ever think about how young they are?”

“I try not to think about it too hard, to tell you the truth,” Gilbert replies, sipping some of the endless supply of apple juice that seems to accompany living with their particular Omegas. It would be beer, but he’s the designated driver this afternoon since neither Feliciano nor Matthew have gotten their license yet. None of them—least of all the English Omega—have come right out and said it, but they all have a vague sense that Ludwig’s fate is indebted to the efforts of Arthur Kirkland. Ludwig’s charge— _statutory rape,_ not something that will ever be uttered in earshot of Romeo—was reduced from a felony to a misdemeanor, a tweaking of the law that Gilbert thinks must have the redcoat behind it in some capacity. They’re even now, in any case. After all of this, Gilbert isn’t the only one wiping the slate clean.

Ludwig must be in the mood for blurting out emotional things, because now he’s saying, “The reverend thinks about it. I don’t know if he’ll ever forgive me.”

“Well, he sent the card.” It had surprised all of them to find the Christmas card in their mailbox. _I regret the things I said. I’d like to talk to you and your brother about all this, if you’ll listen. I don’t blame you if you refuse. I hope you’re all doing well and I’d love to meet my grandson someday._ And three hundred dollars enclosed, a hundred for each of his family. Lovino gave his money to Romeo and hasn’t said a word about the card, at least not where Gilbert can hear. He worries they’ll get caught in a tornado of denied forgiveness and betrayals until Lovino breaks. Then again, perhaps that won’t be a bad thing. A flood is beneficial if it’s precluded by a drought.

Ludwig’s mouth twists, dubious, so Gilbert adds, “Give it time. You took time to get better. Like old cheese.”

His brother elbows him in the side and they wrestle just shy of spilling their drinks, Ludwig taking advantage of his side and snaring him in a headlock. Gilbert swears at him in German—so the Omegas won’t fuss about profanity around the pup—and Ludwig responds in kind, despite both of them remembering the taste of soap when their dam caught them saying these things. They spare a thought for their parents, brief but grateful. Gilbert hopes they can see them, and Ludwig hopes they’re proud to see him and his brother continuing the Beilschmidt family in the house their sire built.

“Is Vati being silly?” Feliciano says, bouncing Romeo in his arms as they come into the kitchen. “Is Vati a silly puppy?”

The Alphas release each other. Ludwig kisses Feliciano and nuzzles at Romeo while Gilbert puts an arm around Matthew’s waist. Matthew is smiling—all of them are—and Gilbert no longer has to feel guilty about pressing his lips to his mate’s temple. He hasn’t put a ring on his finger. That will come first, before any thoughts of pups, though he suspects with Romeo around Matthew has been imagining himself in Feliciano’s place. Truth be told, Gilbert has imagined it, too. It’s something to look forward to, but he’ll let some time go by first.

When you’re this happy, there’s no need to rush.

* * *

They’ve been in the car for sixteen minutes and neither of them have said a word. At least on the way to the city Antonio greeted him, albeit quietly and without looking at him, and asked if he wanted the heat on higher. Lovino had nodded for the former and shaken his head for the latter. He supposes he shouldn’t be upset at Antonio for not speaking, when he’s being even worse. Perhaps it’s not as easy as it seems for other people to get on normally with their lives. Perhaps he’s being too hard not only on himself, but everyone else too.

His therapist would agree with that. _You need to forgive yourself, Lovino. Obsessing over the mistakes of your past means you never get to learn from them and make your future better. I’m sure you’ve heard of leaving the past behind you? Well, it’s a good idea._

But how can he leave the past? In the present he and his brother are both under house arrest—Lovino is restricted to home, therapy sessions, and transport in between—and he spends all his time helping with Romeo or sitting by himself in his (Ludwig’s old) room. His thoughts have never been a pleasant thing to be alone with, but these days they’re brutal. And rightly so, but not if you ask his brother or his therapist.

_You can’t feel awful about it forever, Lovi._

_Watch me._

“How did your session go?” Antonio asks, so sudden Lovino jumps in the passenger seat.

“Fine,” he replies immediately, and regrets it just as fast. He doesn’t want to be so horrible, but he is still stuck in the rut of saying the easiest thing instead of the truth. One regretted word leads to the next, and it’s almost impossible to claw his way out. That’s a large part of what he and his therapist have been working on, but it’s difficult. The therapy wasn’t even his idea; it was the judge’s, and to be fair someone who told a lie as big as Lovino’s probably should have someone professional poking at his mind. Lovino was shocked when Antonio showed up to bring him to his first appointment, proving that Antonio still wants Lovino in his life. Lovino isn’t a secretary at the DA office anymore. He hasn’t yet decided where he’ll work. Perhaps he’ll move to the city, once all this is over and he’s finished being punished for his deceit. He suspects if he does that he’ll only see his family once a year, if that, but it might be for the best. It’ll hurt, he knows it will.

He also knows he doesn’t deserve someone as devoted as Antonio, but he can’t bear to push him away. And besides, as his therapist said: _Change is like a cut. Sometimes it’s bad, and it gets infected, and it takes a lot of work to heal it. But sometimes it’s good, like a surgery, and you end up better than before. Either way, it starts off with pain._ Which Lovino already knew, has always known. But now . . . well, what does he have to lose?

He takes a deep breath, turns to Antonio, and says, “I’m sorry I can’t make you happy.”

Antonio doesn’t look away from the road. “You should work on making yourself happy first.”

Which is a terribly sensible thought; Lovino is used to being the sensible one between them, but maybe that’s an unrealistic role he’s taken on. Antonio is older, and he might not have perfect morals, but—

“I’m no better than you,” Antonio interrupts, as if reading his mind. “You did all that to protect Feli, and I did it all to protect you. And Feli. But mostly you.”

Lovino nods, looking down at his lap. It’s a nice fuzzy feeling, but not when the core is so twisted. “But I lied to you.”

“You’ve apologized before. Don’t torture yourself over it.” A breath just short of a sigh. “I’d rather put it behind me, to be honest with you. Like Francis did.”

“It feels too easy that way,” Lovino says, in a rush. “Like I’m cheating.”

Antonio shrugs, silent, and Lovino guiltily wonders if he’s thinking _Wouldn’t be the first time._

Neither of them say a word for a long moment, until Lovino forces himself to say, “Thank you. For not leaving me. I don’t know what we are, but . . .” His eyes are watering, because he can’t saying _leaving me_ without crying, but he makes himself speak anyway. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me. We’re friends,” Antonio says, without hesitation. Lovino stares at him, and Antonio glances over, expression surprisingly calm. “Friends first.”

Lovino feels his eyes widen and hates the naked hope that must be in them, but for once he doesn’t cover it up with anger. He’s come that far, at least. _Friends._ Have they had a chance to be that, friends? Has Lovino ever allowed himself to have something called a friend? They’ve been coworkers and then straight into whatever romantic mess they got themselves into before the trial. Lovino still remembers Antonio’s lips on his own, his hands on his hips, the scent of cinnamon filling his nose. He wants that again, someday, but he admits to himself now that it might not happen. Still, friendship would be refreshing. Friendship, in fact, would be lovely.

“Besides,” Antonio adds, like all of this is no big deal, water under the bridge, as if happiness between them is attainable as taking another cinnamon-scented breath, “I made you a promise. I’m a man of my word.”

In that moment, Lovino wants nothing more than to rest his head on Antonio’s shoulder, but he doesn’t think it’s a good idea when he’s driving, and on second thought he doesn’t think it’s a good idea at all. _Not yet._ So he leans against the window instead. “I hope I grow up to be like you.”

Antonio laughs. “Yikes. Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

“I won’t.” Lovino watches trees and fields passing them by, then closes his eyes. He doesn’t recognize his voice; he hopes if he’s changing it’s for the better. “I will never lie to you again.”

He can hear the smile, bittersweet. “Sounds like a plan, Lovi.”

* * *

“Straight?”

“No.”

“What about now?”

“Nope.”

Alfred turns around, dropping his hands from the clock he’s been adjusting on the wall. “Okay, that _has_ to be straight.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows. “Oh, did you mean the clock? Yes, that’s straight.”

Alfred looks over at Francis, pained. “See, this is what he does. He’s killing me. He’s wearing me down.”

“Oh no,” the French Alpha says, flashing an indulgently sympathetic smile while watering the plants on the windowsill. “Have you considered divorce?”

“Why, do you know a lawyer?” Arthur asks, and dodges a raisin. “Hey! I just got this office, so try to refrain from throwing your rubbish around in it. Fuck’s sake.”

“Oh, oh, there it is. First swear word in the new office! Somebody keep a tally from now on. And. Also. Raisins are not rubbish,” Alfred says, clutching the little cardboard box to his heart. “They are a healthy snack. Right, Bonbon?”

Francis walks over to pick up the offending raisin and drop it in the bin in the corner. The office is larger than Arthur’s old one; it’s space enough for two offices, at least, if you ask Francis. He can’t imagine how many people the DA staff would try to squeeze in here. He’s still in his small quarters with Antonio, but they don’t mind. He’s living with Arthur full-time now—in their brand-new condo that they, meaning mostly Arthur, just finished paying for—so his time in the office can be the only shared time with Antonio in a week. Living in Arthur’s flat was a good transitional period, so he doesn’t mind the shift too much. The holiday visit to Gilbert’s place was a little awkward—if not for Alfred and Matthew to smooth things over, Francis suspects Arthur would’ve gotten into a fight with Antonio or Lovino or both—but Francis knows better than to expect instant friendship from Arthur. His mate isn’t that sort of person, probably never will be no matter how much Francis’s love softens him. And that’s okay.

“Don’t disrespect him,” Francis tells Alfred. “He’s a senior partner, you know.”

“Oh! Right. Sorry.” Alfred nods soberly to Arthur. “Gotta respect seniors. You must be full of wisdom—”

He only just evades a smack from Arthur, grinning. The English Omega turns around, nose in the air; Francis can’t help but feel pleased with how pleased Arthur is of his accomplishment. “Talk to me when you have a door with your name on it, Jones.”

“Does it count if it’s a bathroom stall and it has _For a good time call_ written above it?” At Arthur’s sidelong look, Alfred hastily throws up his hands. “I mean for me, not for you. And I’m not saying it’s happened, I’m just asking for a friend.”

Arthur and Francis exchange an incredulous glance and Arthur says, “If it did happen it’s in your writing.”

“Well, you know what they say.” Alfred tosses a raisin into his mouth. “No publicity is bad publicity. Gotta market the good—”

Just then the door opens with the sort of knock that comes too fast to answer but still slow enough to feel polite, and in leans Lars van den Berg. Shrewd green eyes flick from Francis—who smiles—to Alfred—who nearly chokes on the raisin—to at last Arthur. “I thought I would let you know. The meeting will start in ten minutes.”

Arthur nods shortly. “Thank you. I look forward to it.”

Lars’s lips quirk. “Give it a few years.” He doesn’t incline his head in farewell, but the way he glances at them all as a whole somehow gives the impression of it. Then he’s gone, pulling the door shut neatly behind him.

“I think that’s the first time I’ve seen him smile,” Francis remarks thoughtfully.

“Me, too,” Arthur agrees, then snaps his fingers. “Jones. Has your body been vacated? Can we start looking for a new tenant? Someone who doesn’t throw dried fruit in offices, preferably?”

“Has he always been that hot?” Alfred asks, gesturing weakly in the general direction of the door. “I thought he was, like . . .”

“Lanky?” Arthur guesses. “He was, until he quit smoking. Now he works out so he won’t gain weight.” At Francis’s faint smirk he adds, “Don’t look at me like that, I heard it from the secretaries. They know everything.”

“Fascinating,” Alfred says, eyes still on the door. Then he shakes his head, goes to Francis, cups the French Alpha’s hands, and shakes out two raisins into his palms. Humming amiably, he turns and goes over to Arthur. The Omega offers his hand, but Alfred instead puts a single raisin on top of Arthur’s slicked-back hair. He clicks his tongue, impressed. “That stuff is somethin’ else.” He skips to the door, lifts a hand to wave. “Enjoy your meeting, hurricane. Blow ’em away!” And, last but not least, a wink at Francis. “Au revoir.”

“Au revoir, mon ami,” Francis says, smiling even after the door has closed. He delicately plucks the raisin from Arthur’s head and feeds it to his mate. “Who needs children when you have an American?”

Arthur nips Francis’s fingertips, but not hard enough to hurt. “Put a pin in that,” he says, because, although it’s not something he longs for right now, he does admit that once they’re settled in their new home and they’ve paid off their loans and Arthur’s health is restored to its default settings, he wouldn’t mind a family. That is, further growing the family he’s found in Alfred and Francis and, yes, grudgingly, Francis’s motley crew of friends. They make an odd pack, that’s for sure, but they’re not so bad. Swearing with Antonio and rolling his eyes with Gilbert and smiling with Francis . . . Arthur could get used to it.

“Mon amour?”

Only when Arthur blinks does he realizes he’s tearing up. Francis touches his cheek gently, an even gentler smile touching his lips. Oh, how those blue eyes sparkle. “No crying in your office.”

Arthur’s laugh is lost to their kiss, but they don’t mourn it; there will be plenty more. _Ten minutes,_ Francis slips into Arthur’s mouth, and he only hums and pulls Francis to him in response. Francis saved his life in a little over a month, after all; there’s no telling what glorious little things they can achieve in ten minutes. Francis is the one who hops up onto the desk this time, and Arthur glimpses his smirk before he trails his lips down his neck. The collar of his rosy blouse is silky against Arthur’s chin. Francis sighs into his hair, _je t’aime_ or something else in French or perhaps just a nonsensical sound of contentment.

 _Yes,_ Arthur thinks, before he gives himself over to want and warmth. _Yes._

He can definitely get used to this.

  
  


_The End._


	17. Kismet

_**KISMET**. N. 19th century._

_Fate. Destiny. Meant to be._

* * *

 

“So how long are you gonna make me wait before you give me the good news?”

Alfred blinks. He watches his hairdresser in the mirror, but he doesn’t have his glasses on so the expression is too blurry to make out. “What good news?”

The Alpha—gay, of course, but even more of a bottom than Alfred so they’ve never had a relationship beyond the professional—tuts, tapping a comb against Alfred’s head. “A little bird told me you were after a tall glass of water.”

Alfred doesn’t like to think what _little bird_ might be tweeting about his romantic involvements. He supposes someone might’ve noticed that he’s recently become friends with Lars van den Berg on social media (the few avenues Lars actually has an account for) but it’s a bit weird that people immediately think he’s doing that in the hopes of sleeping with him. Which, granted, he is. But it’s not _only_ about the sex, hasn’t been for years.

“Don’t listen to little birds,” he advises. “They’re known for deception.”

“Oh, okay,” says his hairdresser indulgently, stroking Alfred’s hair. “So what am I telling everyone I know? That you’re just friends?”

“Sure.” Alfred closes his eyes so he can enjoy the feeling of fingers on his hair. His dam used to do this when he was sick or when he had a nightmare, sitting on the edge of his bed and stroking his head over and over until it lulled him to sleep. He always cringes a little when he remembers his childhood self, running around with his sweatpants tucked into mismatched socks. The rule was he could wear whatever he wanted in the house, and when his sire was at work he got away with it all: skirts, plastic tiaras, even his dam’s makeup before he was discovered. _Alfred! Get out of that! Look at this mess!_

He wonders what his dam would say if he knew about all the failed attempts at finding a mate. Waking up hungover in some random Alpha’s bed, asking for numbers but never getting a text back, kissing lips that always pull away sooner or later. And the worse times, like that one guy whose phone blew up with calls and messages from an outraged mate he’d neglected to mention. Or the young Alpha who had burst out crying when they started taking their clothes off, saying he thought he wanted it but he was too afraid of what everyone would say. And of course there was the worst one, the one who left his nose just slightly crooked. Not enough for anyone to notice, but Alfred will always see it. _Look at this mess._

“Uh-oh.” Alfred opens his eyes to see his hairdresser nodding to the front window. “I just saw trouble’s car pulling up.”

Alfred leans back in the chair so he can see which ex this is referring to and winces. Not a violent one, but one who still blames Alfred for apparently miscommunicating that he wasn’t interested in doing the mounting until the last minute. It was rather awkward at the time. Now it just turns into a bitter one-sided conversation Alfred would rather not deal with today.

So he looks up at his hairdresser and asks, “Can we call it quits, sweet thing?”

The cape is whisked from him with flourish. “Go out the back, I’ll cover your tracks.” He holds a finger to his mouth. “My lips are sealed.”

“Lifesaver. Embrace me.” They air-kiss each other’s cheeks— _mwah, mwah_ —and Alfred places a twenty dollar bill into the other Alpha’s back pocket. He would’ve slapped it too, back in the day, but he’s mellowing out now. That, or he just spends too much time around repressed heterosexual lawyers. “I’ll see you when I get ugly again.”

“Hey now.” The comb wags scoldingly. “Be nice to yourself.”

Alfred gives a sunny smile, one he perfected a long time ago. “Don’t worry. I’m never serious.” _For better or for worse._ The door is dinging to admit another customer, and Alfred doesn’t stick around to see if it’s his ex or not. He weaves around the other two hairdressers, past the storage area of hair dye and styling gel, and out into the back alley. The expected trash cans, some weeds growing through cracked concrete, and—Alfred freezes in shock—one Alpha beating the shit out of another. The victim is a cook from the restaurant that backs up to the salon, and the guy holding him up by the front of his shirt is none other than Ivan Braginski.

Alfred doesn’t wait. He whips his phone from his pocket, brings up his camera (available from the lock screen for this very purpose), and takes a photo. Then, without pausing, he swipes to dial 911.

Now Ivan looks up to glare at him, and though Alfred braces himself to be attacked, the Russian Alpha turns tail and sprints away. As Alfred tells the dispatcher the emergency and the address, he holds his phone with his shoulder and kneels to pull the cook into the recovery position. He’s lapsing in and out of consciousness and Alfred’s not quite sure where his face is beneath all the blood. “Don’t worry,” he says, holding the Alpha’s limp hand. “Help is on its way.”

 _For both of us,_ he hopes, because he would not be at all surprised to hear a gunshot right before he drops dead, put down for interrupting Ivan’s illegal activity. But all he ends up hearing is the wailing sirens and then an Omega’s kind voice saying, “We’ll take it from here, Mr. Jones.”

Alfred steps back, letting the paramedics lift the Alpha up onto a stretcher, and marvels at how even in this he feels like he’s left waiting in vain.

* * *

They give Ivan a cup of black coffee, but he doesn’t touch it.

“Mr. Braginski.” This is Ludwig Beilschmidt, Ivan knows, a rookie still wet behind the ears as far as law enforcement goes. He does a passable calm-voiced Good Cop, though. Unfortunately for him, Ivan isn’t stupid. “You’re not under arrest. We just want to know your side of the story.”

“I told you. It was self-defense.”

“Don’t misunderstand.” And this is Gilbert Beilschmidt, standing behind his brother with arms crossed over his chest and hatred burning in his grey-red eyes. “We didn’t ask for your great American novel. We want the truth.”

Ivan lets a smirk curl his lip. “I’m surprised you have time for this routine, Detective. Have you run out of special victims?”

As he expected, the albino Alpha’s voice lowers to a growl. “Go ahead. Say something to incriminate yourself. Make my day.”

Ludwig holds up his hands. “Relax, both of you.” Blue eyes flick to Ivan. “So your final word is that this was self-defense. You were having a dispute that went south?”

“Mm.”

“A dispute about what, exactly?”

About the lying son of a bitch not giving Ivan his money back despite receiving the kindness of not one but _three_ warnings. It’s not that Ivan will go insolvent over this, of course not. It’s a matter of reputation. If everyone finds out that Ivan Braginski let some random line cook walk all over him, then there will be far bigger problems that a broken nose and a concussion. Anyone who thought that was a big deal had clearly never had his fingers snapped.

“Money,” Ivan replies mildly. “I lent him some. He didn’t give it back. I told him I expected payment, he took me outside, and it became physical. He pushed me first, against the wall. I pushed him back. He started swinging at me.”

“So you pounded his face in,” Gilbert concludes, just shy of a sneer.

Ivan shrugs, meeting his gaze. “I suppose I don’t know my own strength.”

Gilbert steps forward and Ludwig rises from his chair to stop him. “Okay. Mr. Braginski, we’re going to keep you here at the station—”

“Until your latest victim is released from the hospital,” Gilbert cuts in, just short of a snarl.

“—in case we have further questions,” Ludwig finishes, herding the detective out into the hall. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

“No, thank you.” Ivan shows Gilbert his teeth in something caught between grin and grimace. “For eating the leftovers. I’d hate for them to go to waste.”

Ludwig slams the door shut, before Gilbert can do something he won’t regret.

* * *

“I didn’t hear them say anything,” Alfred says, for the third time. “I just came out at the end of it, I guess. But he probably would’ve kept going if he hadn’t heard me calling the police.”

Ludwig nods. “Okay. And you took the picture before you called?”

“Yep.” Alfred can’t really blame the guy for asking pretty much every question twice—he’s fresh out of police academy, after all—but the perfectionist routine tires quickly. This is more or less why Alfred didn’t become a police detective (or, as some might say, an _actual_ detective). He doesn’t like strict rules and formalities and higher-ups looming over his every move. He’d much rather go it alone, at his own pace, trying his own ideas for cases without having to get them approved first. Granted, Arthur is technically his employer and does tell him where to go if he wants something specific, but he’s never stuck his nose into things that don’t concern him and for that Alfred will always be grateful.

Still, it does occur to him that it’s yet another way that he is alone. He has no precinct for a territory, no squad to call a pack. He’s never internalized the emasculation others have thrown at him through the years—because of course a real Alpha would never let someone pin him down—but this part has a particular pang to it. It’s a stereotype: Omegas need Alphas, Alphas need a pack. A family unit, or a friend group, or a workforce. Something. But he’s on the outskirts. It didn’t bother him so much when Arthur was, too. It was a lot easier to pretend nothing bothered him when he had someone even worse by his side. But now things are different . . .

“Mr. Jones.” Ludwig is on his feet, watching him expectantly.

“Huh? Oh, sorry. I’m all over the place today.” He rises. “Uh, what did you say?”

“I said I’ll need you to email me the photo you took.” It’s surprising, seeing the kindness in blue eyes that can be so easily cold. He’s in a far better line of work now; those are eyes for criminals, not a congregation. “Are you alright?”

Alfred smiles. “Oh, sure, yeah. I’m okay. Just a lot on my mind, that’s all.” He takes out his phone. “Wanna gimme your email?” He types it in as Ludwig recites the address, and a small bit of his mind wanders—as it always does—to the afternoon almost two years ago when they kissed. Well, when Alfred kissed him. He wonders if Ludwig ever thinks about it. He wonders if Feliciano knows. _Probably not._ Likewise, he wonders if Francis knows Arthur has tried more than once to get into bed with Alfred. Granted, he was totally wasted on every occasion and Alfred highly doubts he remembers any of them, but it still happened. For whatever reason, today it rubs him the wrong way, the thought that he’s been a failed moment in so many people’s lives and often nothing more than that. He’s never wanted to be that.

He’s never wanted to be the person who thinks and feels like this, either. _Turn that frown upside-down._

“Okie doke, it’s sent,” Alfred says, putting his phone back into his pocket. “Are we done now?”

“Yes. I’ll call you if we have any other questions. I still have your number.” Ludwig offers a hand, smiling. “Thank you for your help.”

Alfred shakes it warmly, because even with all this depressing shit in his head, he is still happy for Ludwig. The job, the mate, the adorable pup Alfred played with for pretty much two hours straight when he visited at Christmastime. There are thoughts of _what if_ and _could have been,_ but Alfred ignores them. Today their pull on him is stronger than ever before.

“Anytime, Chief,” he says, and lets Ludwig lead him out of the little room and back to the lobby.

He cranks the heat when he’s back in his car; the evenings are chillier each night now that summer’s out gasping its last breaths. At the edge of the parking lot, he puts on his right turn signal—he’s an even more cautious driver than Arthur, if you can believe it—and pauses. Does he want to go home to an empty apartment? Does he want to, most likely, end up in Arthur and Francis’s condo for yet another evening? He loves it there, and he knows they love him too, but . . .

 _Something different,_ he thinks, resolving the turmoil inside him to a solid thought. _Something new._

He flicks his left blinker on and heads out as soon as the coast is clear.

* * *

Lars has met Alfred Jones several times before, all of them brief conversations held in the halls at the firm or inside Arthur Kirkland’s office, but this is the first time they’ve corresponded digitally. Lars had just finished giving Erasmus his pellets when his phone dinged. He expected something from Mikkel—now that his pup has been born, there has been an endless stream of photos—and was thus surprised to see Alfred’s message asking if he had plans for dinner this evening. Lars has never been enthusiastic about cooking—it’s easy enough to follow instructions, but if he enjoyed working with his hands he would not be a lawyer—and so he follows his first instinct and accepts the offer to be picked up.

In the car, Alfred comes off as a bit more awkward than he does at the firm, but Lars doesn’t hold it against him. Truth be told, Lars is a bit nervous about this himself. He’s perhaps ninety percent sure, from the way blue eyes linger on him, that Alfred is attracted to him. Lars has no way of knowing, aside from asking, whether or not the American Alpha is interested in just sex or a relationship as well. Lars abandoned casual sex in law school. He hasn’t let someone close to him for a long while. Not for fear of rejection, just . . . it’s easier that way, really.

“Do you mind somewhere like this?” Alfred asks, even though he’s already parked. “We can go someplace more exciting, or . . .”

They’re parked alongside a small cafe Lars has honestly never noticed before. He takes in Alfred’s rather nervous energy, then spies the little rainbow flag in one of the windows of the lavender-and-white building. Well, now he’s certain of one thing about Alfred, then. He struggles to recall the last time someone was so vulnerable in this way for him. Presenting this place Alfred probably frequents and sitting, waiting, silently asking, _Is this okay? You can tell me if it’s not okay._

“No,” Lars says, “this is fine. I prefer quieter places.”

Alfred smiles. “Me too, sometimes. Good to slow down, y’know?” He continues this—not unpleasant—chatter about cozy private businesses all the way around to the front and in through the door. Inside it’s mostly empty, just a pair of Omegas snuggling in one of the corners while the barista and the baker joke about the streaks of fuchsia in the flamboyant Alpha’s hair. When the barista sees Alfred, he points a black-ringed finger at him.

“Freddie, so help me, tell this damned wet blanket that my hair is gorgeous or I’m gonna set him on fire.”

“It is,” Alfred says, and sticks out his tongue when the baker gives them all a _you’re crazy_ look. “What’s he making tonight that’s good?”

“Oh, same old poison,” says the barista, flipping off the baker without looking at him when he protests. He smiles up at Lars. “You don’t look too familiar. First time here?”

“Yes,” Lars replies, and wonders if it will be his last. He doesn’t tend to go out by himself. Will Alfred want to take him here again? He fears—well, not _fears,_ but he worries Alfred may grow bored of him when he proves not to be larger than life like the rest of Alfred’s friends.

“We’re just looking for a soft chair and a warm drink,” Alfred says, before the barista can ask anything else of Lars.

Kindness softens the barista’s eyes. “You’ll always have that here, Freddie, you know that.”

Alfred smiles, but it looks tinged with sorrow to Lars. “Thanks. I’ll just have the same old thing.” He glances at Lars. “What about you?”

Lars is more interested, now, in that sudden sadness than anything food-related. This is his curse and the thing that almost made him go to med school before his cousin convinced him law was the way to go. Helping people—even if they are accused of a crime—is something he’s always felt the need to do. “I’ll just have what he’s having,” he tells the barista.

“They’re together,” Alfred murmurs once they’re settled at their table by a window. “They own the place together. And they’re, you know, mates. Partners. Whatever you wanna call it.”

There are some stuffy individuals who will not use the term _mates_ for any couple that isn’t made up of a biological Alpha and Omega, but Lars is not one of them. “Mates,” he says, and is rather pleased to see Alfred perk up at the acceptance. “They know you well.”

“Oh, pretty well, yeah. I did some work for them a few years back.” Alfred runs his fingers through his hair, which looks recently cut to Lars’s admittedly untrained eye. “They got robbed and I did some surveillance for them. Nothing big and exciting, but y’know . . .”

Much like Mikkel, Lars has no patience for self-deprecation. (Unlike Mikkel, he doesn’t have much patience for arrogance either.) “Did you help convict the robber?”

Alfred blinks, then nods.

Lars nods, too. “Then you did a good job.”

Alfred smiles teasingly. “You don’t usually hear defense attorneys congratulate somebody for convicting.”

Personally, Lars thinks society and the media get too much mileage out of the rivalry between defense attorneys and prosecutors. “Someone getting his job done and doing it well is a rare thing these days,” he remarks. “It’s something to be proud of.”

Alfred stares at him, then slowly smiles, one side curling faster than the other, blue eyes bright. Lars looks back at him—admiring how handsome he is, of course, but also wondering how best to keep that smile on his face and what he might be willing to do to reach that goal.

They’re interrupted by the arrival of their food: two identical plates of clubhouse sandwiches, a handful of crinkle-cut fries, and a marble muffin. They’re also given two glasses of cold apple cider, which Lars has never had without alcohol and is pleasantly surprised by how good it tastes. _Tonight is a night for pleasant surprises, it seems._

Lars tires of waiting for Alfred to speak of his own volition and decides to break the silence. “So,” he says, because he has never cared for small talk and has even less sympathy for coyness, “what are you interested in here?”

Alfred blinks, eyes wide. After a long pause, he says, “. . . Are you asking if I’m gay?”

“No. I’ll rephrase. What do you want out of this?” He gestures to the space between them, indicating their shared company that Alfred has initiated.

Now a mixture of panic and, interestingly, a sort of familiar resignation comes over the American Alpha. “Not sex. I mean, well, I would totally have sex with you. But that’s not my, like, main goal here. I want a serious relationship. Not that I’m trying to get into a serious relationship with _you,_ specifically—I mean, unless you want to do that, then I’d be cool with trying it out—”

Lars holds up a hand. “Relax, Alfred. I understand. I would want a serious relationship as well, if the appropriate circumstance arose.” He offers half a smile, a rarity from him. “And I assumed if you wanted to have sex with me, we’d be dancing in a bar downtown, not enjoying sandwiches in a quaint eatery.”

Alfred lights up a bit at that—Lars is briefly taken with connection and nostalgia, remembering the first time he spoke with someone who knew how to weave words into something more appealing than the usual _who what where_ of mundane life—and actually blushes a little. “You like to dance?”

“No. I don’t do that sort of thing.” Lars shrugs, reluctant to allow the faint disappointment in Alfred’s eyes to worsen. “But I could dance, in the right situation.”

“If the appropriate circumstance arose,” Alfred echoes, amused. “Like if someone challenged you to a dance battle and you had to defend your honor with disco? Or like if there was a flash mob in an airport and everybody started doing the foxtrot? Or if you were being held at gunpoint by a crazy guy who had been denied dancing lessons as a pup and so now he kidnaps people and forces them to dance with him or die, so to save your own life you submit to a waltz?”

“I actually can waltz,” he admits, muffled by his glass of cider. “We learned in school. It was mandatory.”

“So you’ve already danced at gunpoint. And as a child no less,” Alfred marvels. “I had no idea. What other hidden depths do you have?”

Lars has never told anyone else, but this Alpha in this place doesn’t carry the same weight—the same fear of rejection—as the other people in his life, be they work associates or (geographically) distant family. “Actually, the last person I danced with was an Alpha. He kept stepping on my feet because he wouldn’t let me lead.”

When the words sink in, Alfred melts back into his chair a bit like someone slipping into a warm bath of relief. “Oh. Well, he should’ve let you lead. I bet you’re really good at it.”

Lars brushes crumbs and a smirk from his lips with a napkin. “I have an abundance of experience in the field.”

Alfred’s curiosity is, naturally, piqued. “Is that—have you ever, uh, followed? In a dance?”

He wouldn’t be a very good lawyer if he couldn’t speak in layers. “No. Never.”

“Really.” Alfred rests his chin on his hand, gazing at him in wonderment. “I like when the other guy leads. I’ve only done it a couple times, and—I mean, it was okay, but it wasn’t my thing. I don’t like being the big spoon either, it’s more fun to be snuggled.”

Lars quirks an eyebrow. “It must be difficult to find a spoon bigger than you.”

“Oh, there’s plenty of spoons in the drawer. It’s just that they’re all straight, you see.”

And from there, Lars has no idea where the time goes. It feels like only a moment passes while they exchange stories from their childhoods, how they realized they were attracted to Alphas (and Omegas, in Lars’s case), how they came out to their parents (and siblings, in Lars’s case), how they were totally awkward their first time (and paranoid about pregnancy, in Lars’s case). Lars says things he’d thought he would take to the grave, until now: _I prefer Alphas to Omegas, really. There’s just something about Alphas that isn’t there in most Omegas. Perhaps it’s the dominance aspect._ And Alfred picks up where he leaves off every time, so embarrassment is impossible: _I totally get what you mean. I love the dominance part. Like, a big Alpha pinning me down? And the look they get in their eyes? Oh my God, that’s almost better than the actual sex._ Lars laughs more in their two hours together than he has in the past two months, at least. It doesn’t feel like a sign of weakness, with Alfred. He doesn’t need to put on the facade of the stern, serious attorney here. It’s surreal, being allowed to be himself when he isn’t _by_ himself.

They get so lost in their chatter that the owners have to kick them out. _We gotta close sometime, honey. If you wanna be here twenty-four hours you’ll have to volunteer your services._ So Alfred gives their host air-kisses of farewell, waves to the chef, and holds the door open for Lars to step outside. Neither of them can believe how dark it’s gotten. For a moment Lars mourns the lost hours he could’ve spent working, but then he abandons it. The only cases he has won’t go to court for several months if not years; he is allowed to spend a nice evening in better company than paperwork.

When Alfred drops him off, Lars steps round his car to lean down and say through the open window, “My throat feels a bit sore. I’m not used to talking so much.”

“You have a great voice,” Alfred blurts out immediately.

By now, Lars knows how it feels when his shrewd gaze softens. “Thank you.”

“And I really like your hair,” Alfred adds, “did I say that already?”

“I think you might’ve mentioned it,” Lars replies, amused. _Once or twice._

Alfred gives a sheepish grin. “Well, uh . . . I guess I’ll see you at the firm sometime.”

“Or somewhere else.” At Alfred’s hopeful look—he must be able to hide his emotions, as a detective, but he makes no effort to do so now—Lars has to smile. “I’d like to do this again sometime.”

Alfred lights up like a sunrise. “Me too! Do you wanna, like, make a plan?” He must think this is too forward, because he demurs: “Or, nah, I can just text you someday. Or you can text me?”

“I’ll text you.” Lars pauses, internally debating if he should say what he wants to, then determines he has nothing to lose. “You have a beautiful smile.” Then he pats the top of Alfred’s door. “I had a good time tonight. Drive carefully.” Then he straightens, turns, and heads back into his house.

In the corner of his eye, he glimpses Alfred pumping his fist in giddy celebration before the American Alpha drives away.

* * *

Alfred expects it to be at least a month before Lars texts him—well, in truth, there is a large part of him that fears Lars will never speak to him again like so many other Alphas who claimed to enjoy the night they had with him—but his phone dings the very next week.

 

**I’d like you to come to my office**

**So we can have a talk.**

**Oh. Ok**

**A talk about what**

**About what you witnessed**

**Braginski retained me.**

 

Now Alfred feels some fear swirling in his belly, despite himself. He doesn’t need to be afraid of Ivan Braginski. The Russian Alpha is in jail right now, and if he retained a lawyer he’s been arrested for premeditated assault. With Alfred’s photograph and his priors, the chances of him making bail are slim and none even with an expert attorney like Lars. He can’t get to Alfred right now.

But it is a little jolting to realize that Lars will be defense Ivan while Alfred will be testifying—if it goes to trial, of course, but evidently that’s what Ivan wants—against him. It’s sort of like a betrayal, in a way, though it isn’t anyone’s fault. Alfred can only say what he saw and Lars can only give Ivan the fairest representation that the truth will allow.

And he doesn’t have to go speak to Lars right now. He has a right to refuse until Lars issues a subpoena to force his mouth open. It’s a tricky balance to weigh—at least Arthur was courting his own client, not the attorney of some guy he witnessed assaulting someone—but he doesn’t want to be a hassle for anyone, let alone Lars.

 

**Ok. I’ll be over in a few mins**

**But I’m coming for you**

**Not for him**

 

Ivan has done too many cruel things to the people Alfred cares about to warrant anything like sympathy.

 

**I know. Thank you, Alfred.**

**I appreciate it.**

**:)**

* * *

When he gets to the firm, it’s close to lunchtime and so he swings by the vending machines for some pretzels and a chocolate bar. On his way back toward the main offices—that is, the football stadiums Lars and Mikkel and the other senior partners work out of—he nearly walks straight into Francis Bonnefoy.

“Oh, bonjour,” the French Alpha says in surprise. “Arthur is already in the car, I had to come back in for—” He rattles the nearly empty pill bottle in his hand.

“That’s okay, I’m here for somebody else. Last prescription?” Alfred asks, in part hoping to distract from the previous statement.

“Second last,” Francis replies, tapping his knuckles against the wooden door frame. Of course, he has the observational skills of a lawyer, and even if he didn’t he still wouldn’t be able to resist relationship gossip. “That someone else wouldn’t be tall, blond, and Dutch, would he?”

“Well, I don’t know. Maybe he’s French, blond, and of moderate height,” Alfred says, kissing at Francis until the other Alpha puts both hands on Alfred’s shoulders to hold him in place.

“At least primp a little,” Francis murmurs, styling Alfred’s hair with deft hands. “You must have just gotten it cut. I still think it would look good if you let it grow down closer to your face.”

“You convinced Mattie to grow his hair out, but that’s the last soldier you’ll add to your cause,” Alfred replies. “Not everybody is sexy enough to pull off luxurious waves like yours.”

Francis tuts, scolding but amused. “I grew up wishing I could look like you, you know.”

They’ve had this conversation before and both of them know the previous outcome. Alfred doesn’t feel like sharing a tearful hug with him right now, so he just waves it away. His appearance isn’t really his problem. His problem is he doesn’t have someone to go into his office and grab his blood pressure meds for him. And he knows he doesn’t _need_ that. But he wants it so much.

“Don’t leave Art waiting,” he advises. “He’ll find out it was my fault and halve my salary.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Francis says, then smiles a little when he hears the multiple meanings of the phrase.

Alfred returns the smile, because no matter how much jealousy he has for them he’ll still always be grateful to Francis for saving Arthur in a way that Alfred was unable to. “Talk to you later, Franny.”

Francis’s mouth quirks a bit at the nickname, but all he says is, “Drink something before you kiss him, your breath smells of pretzels.” Then he’s off with a wink, leaving Alfred to flounder for a moment at the idea of those broad shoulders, strong arms, big hands, thin lips . . .

He knows his ears are still pink when he knocks on Lars’s door, but there’s not much he can do about it. Lars opens the door for him with a phone pressed to his ear, so Alfred’s greeting is swallowed before it sees the light of day. Lars closes the door behind him and gestures to the several seating options: two long couches, a loveseat, and two more chairs directly across from Lars’s massive L-shaped desk. Alfred sits in one of the chairs, just because the couches seem suggestive to him now that he’s got kissing on his mind (and because he doesn’t want to get any chocolate on the leather). Lars opts for making a slow lap of the office while he talks to whomever is on the other end of the call. By the authoritative way Lars is speaking and the things he’s saying— _playing it by ear is not the same thing as having no idea what I’m doing, I would not be in my office right now if I didn’t intend to do my job_ —Alfred suspects he’s talking to Ivan. He wonders if Arthur has heard the news of Braginski’s latest debacle. He wonders, too, if Ivan reached out to retain Arthur and was rejected before he contacted Lars. He knows Arthur wants nothing to do with Ivan and he doesn’t blame him. Alfred doesn’t have any exes that stain his past quite that bad, but if he was in Arthur’s shoes . . . well, he likes to assume he wouldn’t let things get so far out of hand, but that’s probably wishful thinking.

Finally, Lars hangs up his phone and sits down at his desk. “My apologies. My client has limited phone privileges at the moment.”

Alfred wonders if _my client_ is a euphemism to avoid invoking the evil name or an actual sign of claiming and protection, like _my mate._ Alfred wonders what those particular words would sound like in Lars’s eloquent rumble. “No worries. I got nowhere to be today.”

“Well, regardless, I appreciate you coming in.” Lars takes out a notepad and pen that probably cost enough to feed Alfred for a week. “You know how this works. All you’re expected to do is repeat precisely what you told the police.”

Of course, Lars can and likely has already requested Alfred’s witness statement. Arthur has done this before: brought someone in to his office or gone to meet them somewhere less intimidating than an interrogation room so he can see if any notes change in their song. Sometimes he even enlists Alfred to do it, which isn’t exactly legal but they work around it. So Alfred is exceedingly familiar with deposition, formal and otherwise.

And he does just as Lars says, repeating his story of stumbling across the assault, taking the picture, and calling the emergency responders. Lars listens intently throughout, at times taking brief notes but mostly gazing at Alfred with those sharp green eyes.

“You didn’t see the beginning of the confrontation,” Lars says, and Alfred shakes his head. “You didn’t see the alleged victim retaliate in any way?”

“No, he was pretty much unconscious when I got there.”

“Hmmm.” Lars underlines something twice, then caps his pen and sits back in his chair.

They stare at each other, Alfred’s heart rate increasing with each passing second. His knee starts to bounce. The silence is too much for him. “What are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking about how likely it is for me to win this.” He clasps his hands on top of his desk. “And I’m thinking about how Mikkel advised me not to take this, because he doesn’t believe in taking cases that aren’t a surety.”

“You gotta take risks sometimes,” Alfred points out. “That’s what good stories are about. Nobody makes a law movie about a lawyer who knows he can win every time.”

Lars regards him curiously. “Do you imagine life is like a movie?”

“Well, sure, I guess.” Alfred shifts in his chair. “Sometimes.” He shrugs, gaze falling to the floor. “Things work out in the end, in good movies. That would be nice.”

It’s quiet long enough that Alfred looks up again, expecting to see Lars looking confused or scornful or maybe even distracted by more interesting work. Instead, Alfred sees Lars right in front of him, bent down to be closer to his level. Fingertips—surprisingly calloused—brush Alfred’s jaw, lightly cupping his face as if it might crumble.

Alfred swallows, terrified of shattering this moment.

Lars misinterprets it, pulling back a bit. “Are you afraid of me?”

“No,” Alfred replies immediately. “I just . . .” Honesty seems the best policy here. If he can’t tell Lars how he feels, why should he sleep with him? Easier said than done, of course. “I don’t wanna mess this up. I mean, I’ve dated before, too much probably, but it always goes wrong. I don’t know how to make that not happen.”

Lars ponders this a moment, then says, “Perhaps you never found the right person.”

“Do you believe in that?” Alfred asks, without judgement because he doesn’t know what to believe in anymore. “Fate and kismet and all that jazz?”

Lars tilts his head slightly to one side. “Hm. I don’t know. But I know I’ve enjoyed our conversations more than most I’ve had.” His thumb rests on Alfred’s chin. “And I know I’m more tempted by you than I have been in a long time.”

It’s distantly humiliating how aroused that makes Alfred, but all he can manage to say is “My breath smells like pretzels, sorry.”

Lars chuckles. “I’m Dutch. I like pretzels.”

Alfred’s eyelids are already drooping from the closeness. “I like pretzels, too.”

And then they’re kissing. He hasn’t kissed anyone since Ludwig, and this is notably different. For one thing, Alfred was the one doing the kissing then because Ludwig was far more priest than homosexual at the time. For another, Ludwig didn’t deepen the kiss, urge Alfred upward, and grab his hips as they sprawl over one arm of Lars’s desk. Alfred didn’t realize Lars had a light hint of stubble to his jaw. And he didn’t realize how perfectly they fit together with his legs around his waist, ankles crossed, buttons torn from holes and zippers edging lower—

The phone rings.

Lars goes still, both of them panting. Alfred can feel that he, for one, will need a few minutes before he goes back out in front of the secretaries. Lars unwraps the legs from around his torso and removes his hands from beneath Alfred’s shirt, then smooths his hair back from his forehead, clears his throat, and puts his phone to his ear. “Van den Berg.”

Alfred slowly lowers his feet to the floor and stands, watching Lars look intensely into the middle distance while he listens. He doesn’t say anything, just listens until there are no more muffled words and then he says, “I’ll be there to speak with him in forty-five minutes. Have the private room ready.”

He hangs up.

Alfred rocks his weight between his toes and his heels, a habit his dam gave up trying to break him of. “So, um. Now what?”

“That was Beilschmidt.” Alfred almost asks which one, but it doesn’t particularly matter and he doesn’t want to interrupt Lars when he looks this formidable. “An Alpha just came in to say Ivan hired him to assault the cook. He refused to do the job at the last minute and so Ivan took it upon himself. Allegedly.”

Alfred’s mind begins to race with these new details. “Did he have proof?”

“He recorded their phone call,” Lars replies, rather grim.

Alfred is glad, of course, to see Ivan at last forced to face the consequences of his criminal actions. But this means Lars has an impossible task ahead of him. Again, he asks, “What now?”

“Now . . .” He straightens his neck tie, startlingly handsome. “Now I’ll go tell Braginski that his options are to take a plea bargain—if I can negotiate one—or to find another lawyer.”

At this, Alfred smiles, aglow with admiration. If Lars is afraid, Alfred can’t even imagine what it would look like on his angular features. But still. They just kissed. Alfred just made out with an Alpha twice his age, the senior partner of a prestigious law firm, on his desk. His shirt is still rumpled, and his jeans are still a tad uncomfy. _Holy shit._

“So—wait.” His brow furrows. “How come you said forty-five minutes? It only takes half an hour to get to town.”

Lars turns to fully face him. Something heart-stoppingly hungry glints in his eyes. “Because I like to finish projects before I start new ones.”

Alfred stares at him. “Um. Does that mean . . . you’re not talking about having sex, are you?”

“No.” Lars’s lips tug into a lopsided smirk. “I mean there are places on your neck I’d like to see to.”

A shiver meanders down Alfred’s spine and he grins weakly. “In that case. I’d love to try out your fancy couches.” Right before they drop onto the leather cushions, however, he puts a hand on Lars’s chest. “Hey, have you had lunch yet? I don’t wanna starve you.”

“Don’t worry.” Lars’s gaze isn’t on his face. “I’m sure I can find something to put in my mouth.”

* * *

Another week has passed before Alfred gets an update, and this time it doesn’t come over the phone; this time, it’s on the evening News. He’s lounging on the saggy sofa in his apartment, feet crossed on his coffee table, eating sandwiches made of peanut butter and crackers because his chicken noodle soup is gone and he greatly miscalculated his saltine-to-soup ratio beforehand. When he tunes in to what the newscaster is saying, however, he stops chewing.

“. . . Alpha who recently came forward is now missing. Here is a photograph of his most recent appearance. An Omega who was once in a relationship with him and wished to remain anonymous got into contact with us and claims that he, quote, ‘Saw the writing on the wall years ago. Working with Ivan Braginski is more dangerous than cleaning a minefield.’ Neither Braginski nor his lawyer gave any comment at his bail hearing, where he pleaded not guilty and was not awarded bail. His case will go to trial in October.”

Alfred feels dread swirling around with the soup in his stomach. _Maybe he just went away because he’s paranoid of Ivan going after him,_ he thinks, trying for optimism. _Maybe he’s totally safe somewhere._

Throughout September, Alfred spends his time with Lars at the forefront of his mind and Ivan looming in the back. When he has time, which is most days, he goes to Lars’s office so they can have lunch together in his office. He can see the stress the case puts on the Dutch Alpha, so he’s surprised but pleased when Lars tells him he dropped the case.

“I told him to take the plea bargain,” Lars says, shoulders tense beneath his suit jacket. “I told him the chances of acquittal are nil, but he refused to listen to me. So I withdrew from the case.”

“That’s a good decision,” Alfred says. “You’re the expert, not him. Do you know who replaced you?”

“A junior partner here, with more ambition than sense,” Lars replies. “I suspect he tried several before he found one who didn’t pretend to be too busy.”

Alfred wonders if he reached out to Arthur, or if he knows better than to bother. “Are you happy about it? You don’t look happy.”

Lars’s mouth twists. “I prefer to do work I can take pride in.”

“Hey, you made a decision based on decades of experience.” Alfred smooths Lars’s tie down on his chest. “That’s something to take pride in. You stuck to your guns.”

The Dutch Alpha brushes his lips over Alfred’s forehead. Alfred has learned that Lars prefers silence to sweet nothings, values touch over verbal expression of endearment. Alfred doesn’t mind it; the gentle nuzzles Lars gives him are more genuine than the majority of empty compliments past lovers have given him. There’s a stark devotion to it, to this six-foot Alpha ducking his head to breathe in Alfred with his eyes closed, like he’s giving himself over to Alfred. It was so shocking the first time Lars rested his head on Alfred’s shoulder he almost teared up—partly because of how lovely it was, and partly to mourn the hours Alfred wasted on big guys who think they have to be macho at all times and would never dream of allowing themselves to be tender.

Alfred misses the TV report on the trial in October, but Arthur sends him the link to it online. No, not to the trial report. To this: _Braginski’s defense attorney found dead in basement._ Alfred’s eyes dash along the lines of text beneath the video. _Braginski sentenced to eight years. One week later . . . reported missing . . . found dead in his own basement . . . multiple stab wounds . . . no evidence found . . . investigation ongoing._

Unable to drag his gaze from the fluttering police tape on screen, Alfred calls Arthur.

“Densen told us all to stay away from the firm,” the English Omega says. “Not sure why, considering the bloke was murdered at home. Or, at least, he was found at home. They might’ve taken him somewhere to do the deed and put him back afterward.”

Alfred’s brow furrows, but he shouldn’t be surprised that Arthur has gone straight to solving the mystery rather than worry for his own welfare. “Why would they put him back?”

“To send a message, obviously. To Lars, I presume.”

Alfred has to bite his lip to keep from baring his teeth. “But the other guy wasn’t put back. He’s just missing.”

“Well, maybe that’s a message, too.” Arthur pauses. “To you, perhaps. The lawyers get found dead, and the snitches don’t even get found.”

Alfred shivers. It sounds even more sinister in Arthur’s accent. “Listen, call me if anything—”

“I’ll be fine, Alfred. I acquitted him.” Arthur’s words may be harsh, but his voice isn’t. “Lars is the one who should be worried. . . . And you.” Another pause, longer this time. “Perhaps you should come stay here for a while.”

“No. If they come for me—and that’s an _if_ , okay, we’re not making vacation plans right now—I don’t want them near you two.”

“Don’t let your instincts get in the way of common sense, Jones.”

“Right back at ya,” Alfred says, without heat. “I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.”

“. . . You’d better.”

Arthur hangs up. Alfred grabs his coat and heads out, Larsward bound.

* * *

“We should do something about this,” Alfred says.

Lars shakes his head as he runs a feather duster over each blade of the ceiling fan in his kitchen. It’s not dusty, because he’s done this approximately thirteen times since the news broke of the lawyer found dead. “There’s little we can do but wait until the police find who did it.”

“We know who did it.” Alfred is sitting at the island, swivelling back and forth with a nervous rhythm that Lars doubts he even notices. “Ivan had it arranged from prison.”

Lars turns the fan back on, watches it go round and round. “Then the police will be looking into that.”

“I can’t just sit here and wait.” As if to illustrate this, he hops down from his stool. “I’m sick of doing that.”

Lars knows, from the bitterness in his voice and the slight pink of his cheeks, that he isn’t just talking about waiting for the potential violence from Braginski. He can’t help but relate on some level; he has always hated waiting when the outcome is unknown. The first time he had to wait more than a day for a jury’s decision, he got so anxious that, as a consequence, when he got the call he was so stoned he didn’t recognize the judicial assistant’s voice at first. He won, by the way, and celebrated with a long shower and some eye drops so Lukas wouldn’t suspect anything when he went to Mikkel’s for a congratulatory dinner.

“It’s late,” Lars points out. In fact, it is nine-thirty. Lars is of the opinion that if someone is going to stupidly put their life at risk, they might as well get a good night’s sleep first.

Apparently, Alfred agrees. “Then I’m doing something about it tomorrow.”

Lars steps closer to him. They haven’t done anything more than kissing and a bit of grinding, which Lars attributes more to Alfred’s fear of rushing into another screwed-up relationship than his own self-restraint. He can’t recall the last time his own body was so drawn to another. For him to enjoy speaking to Alfred so much makes him wonder if this is even really happening. “You would’ve made a good attorney.”

“What do you mean?”

“You have a go-getter attitude, for one thing.” Lars hooks his fingers into two of Alfred’s unused belt loops. “You’re good with words, for another.”

The American Alpha tips his head back to smirk rather teasingly. “I’d rather do other things with my mouth.”

“Is that so,” Lars murmurs, a smirk of his own curling his lips before they kiss. He wants to lift him up onto the counter—always, the need to pull Alfred closer to him—but he can feel Alfred tensing up when their bodies move together.

“I, uh, I don’t wanna be a prude,” Alfred says breathlessly into the hollow of Lars’s throat.

Lars nuzzles into Alfred’s hairline, giving only a reassuring rumble. Judging from past conversations they’ve had, and ones Lars has overheard between Alfred and Arthur, he knows the younger Alpha isn’t a prude. In all honesty, Lars wouldn’t feel one hundred percent comfortable having sex right now anyway. With these concerning developments from Braginski, it’s possible their mating might be an escape from stress or fear and regretted after the fact.

Alfred looks up at him. “Wanna smoke weed instead?”

Lars blinks. “Yes.”

And so they do just that. Lars had no idea Alfred smokes; a pleasant surprise, since most non-smokers Lars has slept with were not fans of the smell. They journey around Lars’s condo, playing with his rabbit in the bedroom, competing with how high they can make their hair stand up in the bathroom, spying for constellations on the balcony, watching subtitled Dutch romance movies in the lounge area, and finally baking double chocolate muffins in the kitchen.

“We should make this a tradition,” Alfred says, licking the bowl and getting brown batter all over his nose. “Midnight muffins.”

“If we don’t get killed,” Lars agrees. The muffins are nearly done. He couldn’t believe the muffin mix Alfred found in the back of his cupboard hadn’t expired yet. Perhaps this is more fate. _Or just a coincidence._

“Don’t be negative, honey.” Alfred’s mouth snaps shut when he says that and his blue eyes seek Lars in alarm.

He isn’t one for giving pet names himself, but he doesn’t mind receiving them. He gifts Alfred with a light smile. “I’m not negative or positive, just realistic.”

“You can still see the glass half-full, though.”

Lars glances over at him. “I’m not used to being around someone as happy as you.”

Alfred ducks his chin—not sheepishly, but in something like disappointment. “I’m not happy all the time. I just pretend ’cause I don’t wanna make other people unhappy.”

Quietly, Lars says, “That’s nice of you. Considerate.”

In truth, though he was raised to be stoic, he thinks it’s a bit toxic. Whether you’re hiding your emotion for your own image or for the welfare of others, you’re still bottling up things that are best let out. Not that he’s innocent of it himself.

Alfred still hasn’t looked up yet. His voice has gone small. “Do you know what I’m most afraid of?”

“What?”

The bloodshot blue eyes are bright with unfallen tears. “What if everybody is just pretending to be happy?”

Lars puts his arms around him, filled with the same protective instinct he’d have for a pup or a weeping Omega. “I know that’s not true.”

“No?” Alfred sniffles, face buried in Lars’s sweater.

“No,” Lars agrees. “You make me happy. That’s my proof. I’m not pretending.”

Alfred cries while they hug, then cries some more while they eat muffins, then dries his eyes on the oversize shirt Lars loans him to sleep in and falls into sound slumber with Lars’s arms around him and chocolate crumbs still clinging to his cheeks.

Lars lies awake, listening to Alfred’s peaceful breaths. He won’t try to stop him if he wants to do something about Braginski, doubts he could control the American Alpha anyway once his mind is made up. Still, he will worry. He shifts slightly, so he can nuzzle into his hair. He breathes in—shampoo and weed and chocolate and _Alfred_ —then sighs deeply, in surrender.

_Please don’t do anything stupid._

* * *

The next day, after granola and fruit for breakfast and a heart attack when he saw Lars in his towel, Alfred goes to the police station. He also sends Arthur a picture of Lars’s bunny eating his breakfast baby carrot, just to make sure he hasn’t been kidnapped in the night. The response comes as a photo of Arthur caught unawares while sipping his tea, presumably taken by Francis. Alfred would send something silly if it were Arthur holding the phone, like the inside of his mouth or an ant on the sidewalk, but he spares Francis.

The desk sergeant says Ludwig isn’t working this shift, so Alfred heads for the door marked SVU instead. Inside, he finds Gilbert stretching his arms over his head, leaning to the left and then to the right. Then he arches his spine and winces, lets his arms fall to his sides.

“Back ache?” Alfred asks, lifting his eyebrows meaningfully.

Gilbert only smirks for a moment before his smile is softened by fondness. “Romeo loves piggyback rides. He’s almost thirty pounds now, you know. And he’s usually wearing a dress covered in beads or fancy boots or whatever else Feli can find to put him in, so he might as well be forty.”

Alfred has to grin at that. He’s seen the things Romeo wears. The little Alpha reminds him, in more than one way, of himself when he was a pup. “Are you still betting it’ll be a phase?”

“Well, right now he’s just Feli’s doll. More or less.” Gilbert checks his watch. “But I think he’ll probably still like those things when he’s older. Just try and tell Ludwig that, though.” He puts his hands into his pockets. “Is there something I can do for you, or is this a social call?”

Alfred mirrors him, hands in his jeans pockets. “Have you heard the latest with the Braginski case?”

All levity leeches from Gilbert’s face like warmth in winter air. “Eight years.”

“Should be double that, at least,” Alfred says. “But I mean the missing and the murdered.”

A muscle in Gilbert’s jaw flexes. “It’s not my case. And I wouldn’t be able to discuss it, even if it was.” He turns away. “You shouldn’t be getting involved in this, Alfred. You don’t have the training for it, and you don’t have anyone to call for backup if something goes wrong.”

“I know that.” _I’m painfully aware, in fact._ He holds up mollifying hands. “I just wanna know if someone’s been to the prison to see who’s on Ivan’s visitor list.”

Grey-red eyes flick to him, then narrow. “I didn’t say anything to you, and I adamantly urged you not to take any action.”

Alfred salutes him and trots out of the station, whistling a merry tune.

* * *

The CO Alfred gets is one of the few Omegas who work in the prison, and as such he’s—as Alfred’s sire would say—hard-looking. If Arthur was doing this, he’d be at a loss because he can neither flirt or intimidate his way through it. Alfred knows the secret though. These steel-wool Omegas are best dealt with in a charmingly soft and frightened manner, which is easy for him because Alfred wakes up every morning as a soft and frightened snail before he coils down into his shell of cheery confidence.

Alfred goes into the prison intending to only look at the recordings of any visits Ivan has had since being locked up. Two things make him change his mind. One, the transcript of his conversation with someone called Nikolai Arlovski containing, among other small talk nonsense, the question _How is the pup?_ And two, the fact that not one, not two, but three prisoners catcalled Alfred on his way in.

Nothing he wants to repeat. Nothing he wants to hear, ever, but especially not after such a lovely night with Lars.

So, feeling rather ferocious, Alfred requests a visit with Ivan. There’s some formality, and then he’s ushered into the visiting room where Ivan is waiting. No glass and phones like in the movies, just a room with spread-out tables. Two other prisoners are having visits right now, both with their mates as far as Alfred can tell. He wonders, for the first time, if Ivan has ever had a real mate, someone he loved, someone who loved him.

Then he focuses on those eerie violet eyes and faint sneer and he throws the thought away.

“Let’s keep this short and sweet,” Alfred says, flipping his chair around and straddling it. “I want to know who Nikolai is. You’re going to tell me, and then I’m going to leave you to your eight years.”

Ivan looks amused. “Shouldn’t a detective be able to find out these things?”

“I’d prefer to waste as little time on you as possible.”

“Oh? And that’s why you spent last night thinking about me.”

Alfred schools his features, but he knows Ivan saw the burst of fear and anger. _Bastard. Rapist. Murderer._ “And tonight you’ll think about me. You’ll wonder why you didn’t take your head out of your ass and tell me what I wanted to know while I was in a good mood.”

Ivan chuckles, a rumble so deep Alfred doesn’t think he could even do manage it as a joke. “You’re adorable, I must say. I would’ve taken you, if you were a bitch biologically too.”

 _Homophobe, too. Great._ “Okay, look. I know you’re coming after me, and I know you have somebody doing your bidding, and I know Nikolai is the only person who’s visited you aside from your lawyers. So, who is he to you? Partner? Friend? Family member?”

Ivan sits back in his chair, arms crossed calmly over his chest.

“Mailman? Taxi driver? Teacher? Uncle? Cousin?”

Ivan’s gaze lifts to the ceiling.

Alfred is relentless, barely a pause between each word. “Sire? Son? Brother?” At that, there’s just barely a reaction, a slight flicker in Ivan’s eyes. “Brother?” Alfred raises his eyebrows. “Interesting. So he’ll be staying with that pup in your house. Is that your nephew? That would make sense, wouldn’t it. So Nikolai is the pup’s sire?”

Ivan stands up. “This conversation is over.”

Alfred stands too, nods to the guard already approaching to cuff Ivan’s hands and take him away. “For now.”

* * *

Alfred doesn’t tell anyone about his plans. He goes straight to Ivan’s place just outside of town. Well, he gets lost down what turns out to be a logging road, and _then_ he goes straight to Ivan’s. He half-expects to be shot dead before he even gets out of his car, but there’s nothing. No movement in the house windows. Birds chirping. A soccer ball on the shaggy lawn. Nothing foreboding.

He takes a deep breath, then knocks on the door. It occurs to him only now that if he’s wrong about this, if he _does_ get attacked right now, no one will know where he is. Someone will have seen where his car went, probably, but then again. Everyone learned how well this town can hide secrets two years ago.

Before he can chicken out, the door opens. Here is an Alpha so pale Alfred at first thinks he’s albino like Gilbert. But no, his hair is platinum blond, not white, and his eyes are grey-violet, not grey-red. He’s a more delicate and more frigid version of Ivan; if Braginski is a sword, Arlovski is a dagger.

He’s the same height as Alfred, but he stands like he’s taller. He eyes Alfred up and down, then tips up his chin. “Are you selling cookies?”

Alfred is taken aback, for a split second, by how thick the accent is. Then he puts on a winning smile. “Ha, no, actually, I’m here to ask you some questions, if I may.” From his pocket, he removes his little notepad and pen. “I’m a journalist doing a story on Ivan Braginski. I can’t get clearance to go in and see him—trust me, I tried—because the prison knows me too well. I like to cause trouble.” He winks. “I’m what you’d call a devil’s advocate. I think Ivan wasn’t given a fair trial, and I want to find out as much as I can so I can shine a new light his side of the story.”

Nikolai’s pale brow furrows slightly. His gaze slides over Alfred again—not lasciviously, though that might’ve been less nerve-wracking—for a long moment before at last he asks, “And your name is?”

“Oh, sorry. I get too, you know. Excited.” He swirls a hand around his head, grinning, then offers it. “Jason Baker. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Nikolai eyes him for a third time, then at last shakes his hand and steps aside to invite him in. Alfred doesn’t take in any details of the rather bare house; he’s too concerned with fronting for his audience of one. He asks him for his name, his relationship with Ivan, and his thoughts on the rumors that Ivan is a dangerous criminal.

Here, Nikolai’s lips curl slightly at the corners. “Dangerous can mean many different things.”

 _Wow. That doesn’t sound like something a dangerous criminal would say or anything._ “Oh, that’s good, lemme take that down word-for-word.” Carefully, he writes _PSYCHO_ seven times. “Okay, now, let’s get into the nitty-gritty. You weren’t there when the alleged assault happened, of course, but did Ivan maybe speak to you beforehand?”

Nikolai shakes his head. “We don’t have much contact.” He started off standing by the window, but now he crosses the room to sit beside Alfred on the couch. “He has his work, I have mine. We keep busy.”

“Right, of course.” Alfred tilts his notepad so Nikolai can’t see it. “Do you believe that your brother would attack someone in cold blood as the victim claimed?”

Nikolai leans closer, an arm around Alfred’s shoulders on the back of the sofa. “Desperate times call for desperate measures. You would be surprised what people will do in the right circumstance.”

He can hear Lars saying _appropriate circumstance_ and it makes his heart ache. He needs out, needs to draw this mission to a close even though it’s barely begun. But if he can find something to blackmail Ivan with, if he can find just one little thing he can clutch and gain power over him, he and Lars no longer have to worry. He’s found impossible details before, and almost every time it was to enable a criminal to walk free. This time, he’s doing it to put a bad guy in his place and keep him there.

 _Play into it._ He leans a little closer to Nikolai as well, smiling. “Could you tell me a little more about that?”

“It’s not all black and white, you know. Desperate people do terrible things without a second thought. When you are drowning? You will push anyone’s head under to get air for yourself, even your dam or your mate.” Nikolai’s fingertips find themselves on Alfred’s neck, tickling his hair. “It’s the same with money. If you need it bad enough, you will get it.”

Alfred shivers a little, even though in truth it’s more of a shudder. “But, wait, the Alpha who went missing claimed that Ivan was doing it for money the cook owed him. Is that true?”

“He owed him money, yes.” Nikolai seems almost impatient now. “Ivan does loans all the time. He enjoys helping people.”

 _Is that what he calls it?_ Alfred smiles. “What do you enjoy, Mr. Arlovski?”

Pale lips pull taut in a grin. “Danger.”

Dread cools his insides. He knows he must be overdoing the airhead routine, but he doesn’t know what else to do. Panic mode approaches. “Oooh, like an adrenaline junkie?”

Nikolai’s fingers squeeze tighter against Alfred’s neck. “You could say that.”

 _Okay, abort mission._ Alfred sits up abruptly, flipping his notebook shut and holding it to his heart. “Well, you’ve given me, gosh, _more_ than enough. Thank you so much.” He stands, and after a second, so does Nikolai. They shake hands again, then Alfred asks, “Do you think I could sneak to your bathroom for a second?”

Amused, Nikolai replies, “Yeah, it’s upstairs. Third door.”

For some reason, the glint in his eyes is far more terrifying than rage would be. Alfred flashes another grin before he scurries upstairs and over to the third door. It’s locked when he tries it, so he stands in the hall with his fingers bunched in his hair, internally screaming at himself. _Get out! You’re crazy!_ What are Arthur and Francis going to say? What about Lars? What about Matthew and Gil—well, no, he’s not telling Gilbert, that really would be crazy. He’s not making it out of here alive just to be smothered by Mr. Overprotective.

The bathroom door opens. A little fluffy-haired Omega, still in pajamas even though it’s past noon, looks up at Alfred. There’s no alarm or confusion in his big blue eyes, just faint curiosity.

“Uh,” Alfred says. “Hi there. You must be Raivis.”

The pup nods. He’s so small, but there’s something to his eyes that makes Alfred think he’s a little older than he looks. “Who are you?”

“I’m Jason.” Alfred offers a hand, gently shakes the smaller one.

Raivis perks up. “Like the YouTuber?”

Alfred stares at him. “Heck yeah, like the YouTuber. You watch let’s plays too?”

Raivis nods eagerly. “That’s my favorite thing to do. I’ve seen all of his full plays.”

Now Alfred is impressed. “Wow. That’s, like, hundreds of hours.” He wonders if Raivis has all this free time because he’s a kid, or if he spends every waking moment in virtual fantasy lands because he needs to escape his real life. _Who’s worse to live with, Ivan or Nikolai?_ It seems like apples and oranges to Alfred, if the fruit is rotting and full of maggots.

“What about friends?” Alfred asks. “Do you ever play with friends from school?”

Raivis shakes his head. “I don’t have friends at this school. No one likes me here because of Uncle Ivan and Nik.”

 _Nik._ No pup calls his sire by a nickname, let alone his first name. So they’re both Raivis’s uncles, then. “Where’s your old school?”

The pup shrugs, rubbing his nose. “I dunno. Not here.”

“How come you came here?” Alfred slips his notepad out again.

“’Cause Mamula is sick.” Raivis’s little mouth forms a frown. “I don’t get to see him anymore. I don’t want to go to the hospital anyway. I don’t like it. It smells scary.”

Alfred’s heart sustains a sizable fracture. “Do you think you could tell me your mamula’s name?”

Raivis sucks on the end of his sleeve, uncertain.

“You can trust me.” Alfred gives him the softest smile he can. “I want to help you. I promise.”

Raivis looks up, hope in his eyes.

Five minutes later, Alfred is galloping down the stairs. He’d hoped to give Nikolai a wide berth, but here he is immediately, standing in the doorway that leads to the porch and, beyond that, to freedom.

“Well,” Alfred says, trying to channel the brisk not-quite-politeness Arthur can summon so effortlessly, “that’s me off.”

“So soon?” Nikolai steps close, eyes everywhere but Alfred’s, and stroke his cheek with the back of a finger. “I look forward to reading your article.”

Alfred grins. “I’ll include a well-worded thank you for your helpful insights.” Then, mercifully, he’s out into the sunlight. He hurries over to his car, trying not to gag, and waits until he has his breath back to start the engine. He buckles his seat belt and takes one last look at his notepad.

_DMITRI BRAGINSKI._

* * *

Dmitri typically wakes up to a nurse taking another of the endless blood samples or delivering a tray of flavorless food or, more rarely, one of his brothers here to take him closer to the grave with stress. But today—he’s never sure what time of day it is, because he prefers drawn blinds and soothing lamps to harsh sunlight or empty moonlight—he opens his bleary eyes to see an unfamiliar Alpha sitting beside his bed.

“Hi,” says the Alpha with a friendly smile. “I’m Alfred Jones. Do you know that name?”

Dmitri shakes his head. He once knew hundreds of names, but they’ve faded away, lost in the gauze and narcotics clogging his head. Still, this Jones character must not be here to kill him or he’d have done it while he was asleep. He doesn’t have the gleam of sadism in his eyes that Dmitri is so familiar with from his youngest brother.

“I’m a private detective,” Alfred tells him. “Right now I’m working on a case involving Ivan Braginski. Do you know anything about it? A missing man who wouldn’t do as Ivan told him, a lawyer murdered for not acquitting him?”

Dmitri has to close his eyes. He can endure the pain that has become normal for his body, but his brothers’ stupidity will never not agonize him. They were not taught to do things this way. They are not brutes. Their sire would never allow them to act in anger. _Revenge is for the weak._ They were taught to rise above the common rabble of bruisers and loan sharks, but with their parents gone and Dmitri stuck in a hospital bed, there is nothing left to pump morals through their veins. The writing was on the wall when Nikolai abandoned the Braginski name, but Dmitri thought he could trust Ivan with Raivis. The obligation of blood. _Keep him safe._

He weakly pushes himself more upright against the pillows. “Raivis—”

“He’s in the same house,” Alfred says quickly. “He’s safe, I just saw him an hour ago. Nikolai is staying there, taking care of him. He—Raivis, I mean—told me about you.” He takes a steadying breath. “I thought of a bunch of stories to use on you, but I think I’m just gonna be honest with you. I witnessed Ivan committing a crime, and my . . . I know his lawyer, or his ex-lawyer who ditched his case when he wouldn’t take a plea bargain. I’m pretty sure we’re next on the list of people who pissed Ivan off, and I’d really rather not get stabbed to death, y’know?”

Dmitri shakes his head against the pillows, mentally cursing his brothers. “They should not hurt you or the lawyer. You were just doing . . .” His hand twitches, a far cry from the gesture he’s too weak to perform.

“Our jobs?” Alfred suggests, blue eyes sympathetic.

“Mm.” Dmitri sighs. His vision is starting to fail. All of his energy is devoted to fighting the demon growing within his body; this news has exhausted what little spare he had reserved. “You came here to use me.”

Alfred’s mouth opens, but all that comes out are little helpless sounds as he struggles to find something catchy to say. Dmitri interrupts before he can: “I understand. And I agree.” He forces his eyes open, fueled by his anger at his brothers. “Do you have paper?”

The American Alpha nods quickly, offering a notepad and pen. Dmitri accepts them with trembling, numb hands. In a wobbly, faint hand, he writes two short paragraphs. One for Ivan. One for Nikolai. They aren’t even the worst secrets he could use against them, as a matter of fact. There’s a high chance they’ve found themselves even deeper graves to potentially fall into since Dmitri has been forced to abandon the business. As the oldest, he took over from their parents. He knows every important detail. Trusting this stranger with them may be a moment of weakness or foolishness on his part . . . but then again, if Alfred misuses this information, he’ll end up dead anyway.

Through unfocused eyes, Dmitri watches Alfred read over what he’s written, twice, then nod fervently. “Thank you.”

He says something else, but Dmitri is fading back into darkness now. He has no idea how much time passes between each moment; he sees Alfred, then nothing, and when he opens his eyes again, a nurse is speaking gently to him as he slides yet another needle into his arm.

* * *

On his way across the crowded parking lot of the hospital, Alfred calls Lars. It rings, then rings, then rings some more. Alfred’s heart joins his mind in racing. Perhaps Lars is busy working. Perhaps his phone is on silent. Perhaps he’s napping. Perhaps—

The call goes through.

“Hello?” Alfred says immediately. “Lars? Hello?”

Distantly, he hears a rustling sound. Breathing. Muffled, nameless noises. Then, barely audible: “Alfred. I’m home. Someone is here.”

Someone puts the world on mute.

“Don’t move,” Alfred says, an intense whisper. “Stay where you are.”

Lars doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing to say. It wouldn’t matter if their places were swapped; neither of them can fight, especially not against someone employed by Ivan or Nikolai. And if the intruders are armed . . .

_This could be the last thing I say to him._

Alfred hunches over, holding the phone with both hands now. “Lars. I’m sorry. I’m coming, okay? I’m gonna fix it. Just don’t—”

Then there’s shouting, sounds of impact, slamming footsteps. Alfred listens, desperately stifling a whimper, but there are no gunshots. No screams or moans of pain. No choking. Just cursing, one clear phrase— _come quietly and I won’t kill your bunny_ —and then, almost too distant to hear, the condo’s main door closing.

_If I hadn’t called, maybe they wouldn’t have found him._

He will put up with a lot, but he will _not_ let a relationship end like this.

The tires shriek as he guns it back to the evil lair in the little town.

* * *

Lars has never been transported somewhere with a bag on his head. His hiding place under the bed was discovered shortly after Alfred’s call vibrated his phone, and the physical confrontation left him with a headache and what are likely bruised ribs. Two Alphas are his captors; one shows him a gun and informs him that shouting for help or sudden moves will not be taken kindly. So Lars allows them to herd him downstairs in silence, and joins one of them in the backseat of a nondescript SUV. The windows are (illegally) tinted, so no one can see when they shove the canvas bag over his head. Lars does not give them the pleasure of hearing panicked breaths or whimpers. He sits in silence and thinks of Alfred.

 _I’m gonna fix it._ What has Alfred done? _Stay away,_ he thinks. _Don’t come after me._

He’d closed his eyes when he heard Alfred’s voice over the phone. He didn’t realize, until now, how much he associates comfort and happiness and safety with Alfred Jones. He pictures bright blue eyes, a wide grin, a warm hand clasped with Lars’s. They have not made anything official yet, but if they get through this nightmare, Lars swears to himself that he will ask Alfred to be a permanent part of his life.

Granted, a kidnapping isn’t the best basis for pair-bonding, but there is that old chestnut about desperate circumstances.

After what feels like an hour but is probably less, the car is stopped and Lars is taken out, roughly pushed across a grassy yard, and into a house. Downstairs; a basement by the musty smell. If he’s not mistaken, there’s the bitter tang of dried blood, too.

“Take that off your head.”

A Russian accent, but not Ivan’s voice. Lars slowly takes off the bag, lets it fall to the concrete floor. There is a thin, pale Alpha observing him calmly while the two thugs point guns at Lars from two sides. No one is within reach, not that Lars would know how to use a gun even if he could steal one.

“I know you,” says the Russian Alpha, “but you don’t know me. That’s fine. There are a lot of things you don’t know. You should have known to follow Ivan Braginski’s orders, for one thing.”

“The last lawyer who did that is doing worse than I am,” Lars points out.

“Oh. You’re a smartass. Hm. There are a lot of those around here.” He removes a switchblade from his pocket, regards it fondly, then steps toward Lars. “I’m glad for it, though. I prefer when they aren’t in tears from the start.” He traces the outline of Lars’s jaw with the flat of the blade, eyes gleaming. “It’s more fun to watch the brave ones crumble.”

Lars steals himself—thinks of Mikkel in front of the jury, Arthur in front of the partnership committee, Alfred smiling in the face of the fear he feels—but no pain comes. The Russian Alpha is interrupted by a familiar voice.

“Excuse me, Nikolai,” says Alfred, “but could you not?”

Nikolai turns around, a sneer tugging at his lips. “Oh, the _journalist._ How is your article coming along, Mr. _Jones_?”

Alfred’s expression doesn’t change from its slight irritation. He holds up his notepad. “I got a guest writer.”

Nikolai’s eyes narrow slightly. One of the goons shifts his gun to Alfred as Nikolai closes the distance between them and takes the notepad. When his gaze finds a particular section of writing, his face goes slack in shock. Then he rips the page out and tears it to pieces that flutter to the floor like snow. Lars looks to Alfred, caught between relief that he’s alive and dread at what could happen at any moment, but the American Alpha’s face is still set with annoyed determination.

“You can kill me and him,” Alfred says with a slight nod to Lars, “but there are plenty more copies of this and if I’m dead on the evenings News or reported missing or a tad unhappy about the outcome of this meeting, that”—he points to the shreds littering the floor—“will be spread around to all the people who want to hurt you more than I do.”

Nikolai snorts. “Oh, big talk. How would you even know who to give it to?”

“I’m friends with defense attorneys. They know all sorts of monsters.”

Lars has to smile, just a little.

Grudgingly, after a grumbly growl to himself in Russian, Nikolai says, “Just say what you fucking want.”

“I want four things.” Alfred counts them off on his fingers. “Don’t touch me, don’t touch him, and don’t touch anyone else in that firm. If you do that, we won’t have an issue. I’m a real nice guy when I’m happy. I suggest you keep me that way.”

Lars wonders if this ferocity can be summoned at any time. Likely best that it can’t; it’s tempting Lars almost as much as the cute squeaks Alfred gives when Lars picks him up.

Nikolai has frozen fire for eyes, but he says, “That was three things.”

“Oh, right, thank you for keeping track. I’m a little distracted, I have a lot on my mind what with my life being on the line and all.” Alfred smiles. “I think it would be a good idea for Raivis to live with a foster family.”

Nikolai throws up his hands. “Why do you give a fuck?”

“Because he’s a cool little dude,” Alfred replies, as if this is obvious. “And he deserves a lot better than living with a . . . human like you.”

Now Nikolai’s brow furrows in the manner of reluctant agreement—he doesn’t exactly strike Lars as the domestic sort—but he doesn’t make it verbal. He only offers his scarred hand.

Alfred reaches out, but doesn’t touch him. “I want your word. We’re safe.”

“Safe,” Nikolai snarls.

“Good.” Alfred shakes his hand. He goes to pull away, but Nikolai keeps hold of him.

“You have big balls,” the Russia Alpha sneers, “for a little fag.”

Lars’s lips pull back from his teeth, but Alfred just smiles. “Yup, sure do.” He crosses to Lars, stretches up on his tippy toes, and kisses Lars on the mouth, hard. Lars is stunned into motionlessness, but he puts an arm around Alfred’s waist and enjoys the disgust on Nikolai’s face when they pull apart.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Alfred says, once he’s cleared his throat, “we’re going to the hospital for a little checkup and then ice cream. Ciao.”

They don’t say a word until they’re in Alfred’s car, because there are two more big Alphas standing in Ivan’s yard. When they’re driving down the wooded road, Alfred bursts out, “Holy shit, holy fuck, oh my God. I’m shaking, I’m shaking aren’t I? Is this shaking?” He holds up a quivering hand.

Lars twines their fingers, warm relief gushing inside him. “You were so brave.”

 _“Fuck,”_ Alfred says, full of unused adrenaline. Then he says, “You were brave too, that was really good. Was the kiss too much?”

Lars considers. “No, I don’t think so. I liked it.”

“Okay, good. It’s never enough to be just, like, murderers, right? Always gotta be homophobes, too.”

“We need more open-minded criminals.”

“Right?” Alfred glances at him with those unbelievably bright blue eyes, and the pair of them go up in laughter to the point where they’re almost in tears at the ridiculous miracle of being alive, and together.

* * *

“So let me get this straight.” Arthur crosses his arms on his chest and his ankles on the corner of his desk. “You snogged Lars at gunpoint in Ivan Braginski’s basement after you advised Nikolai to put his nephew into foster care?”

“Yup, pretty much,” Alfred says around a massive bite of chocolate and granola. “It worked, though, Raivis is in a nice foster home. He even goes to the same school he went to when he was living with his dam.”

“Really?” Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Someone must have pulled some strings.”

“Must have,” Alfred agrees. He swallows the last bite, stands up to fire the wrapper into the little garbage can, then removes another from his the jacket lying over the back of a chair. In fact, he has plans to visit Raivis next week. If Dmitri is feeling up to it, Alfred might take Raivis in to see him. He might never sire his own pups, but he’ll happily take care of Raivis, Romeo, and any others who join his pack.

“Dear God,” Arthur says. “Why are you chain-smoking chocolate bars? I thought you were on another health kick.”

“I am,” Alfred protests. “These are protein bars. Protein’s healthy.”

“They’re covered in chocolate.”

“Look at it this way. You’re covered in freckles, right? But is that what defines you? No. It’s what’s _inside_ that counts, Arthur. You are a person.” He holds up the bar. “And this might be covered in chocolate, but it’s still a protein bar.”

Arthur stares at him for a long moment. “Astounding, truly. Heartwarming.”

Alfred nods, placing the protein bar into Arthur’s hand and curling freckled fingers around it. “Here. It belongs to you now. Rejoice in the glorious protein.”

A knock on the door. Arthur turns. “Whoever it is, please come in.”

Lars pokes his head in, amused. “Am I interrupting?”

“Thankfully.”

“I’d like a word in my office.” When Arthur starts to stand up, Lars clarifies, “With Mr. Jones.”

Alfred grins as Arthur drops back into his chair and unwraps the bar. Alfred lingers to watch him bite it, chew, swallow, and squint up at him. “This,” Arthur rasps, “tastes like licking chocolate-covered sand.”

“See, I told you it was healthy.” Alfred claps him on the shoulder and heads for the door.

“Don’t get him pregnant,” Arthur advises Lars. “The pups would eat you out of house and home.”

“I’ll do my best,” Lars replies, his attention mostly on Alfred already. Alfred himself can barely look away from Lars as they make their giddy way back to his office, but he knows Arthur is smiling to himself as they go. At last, Alfred’s friends are as happy for him as he is for them. And, even better, he has a boyfriend—mate, really, but they haven’t told anyone except the bunny yet—who thinks he’s a hero.

“Are you happy now?” Lars rumbles against his neck.

“I am. Actually, I’m overjoyed,” Alfred says. “What about you?”

Lars’s smile is small, but his eyes: “Delighted.”

One hand is already on Alfred’s waist, so he takes Lars’s other in his own. “Then we should dance. As practise, for the ceremony,” Alfred says, a lighthearted challenge.

Lars’s smile spreads and Alfred realizes he has a tiny dimple on his left cheek. “Only if you let me lead.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, honey,” Alfred tells him, and they waltz their clumsy way around Lars’s office, Alfred’s hand drifting from Lars’s shoulder to more interesting places and Lars dipping Alfred lower and lower each time and Alfred only grinning because he knows he’ll never let him go.

 

_The End._


	18. Fernweh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This monstrosity is dedicated to the dazzling Kitty (Katatafish) without whom this extra would not exist at all, let alone without embarrassing errors. One thousand thanks <3

**_FERNWEH._ ** _N. 19th century._

_Longing for faraway places;_ _especially,_

_ones you have never seen before._

* * *

 

At this point in his life, Lovino knows the outside of another person better than he knows the inside of himself. That other person being, of course, Antonio Fernández Carriedo. Lovino has memorized almost every inch of the Spanish Alpha’s bronze skin, and how it reacts to different sorts of touch; he knows Antonio’s favorites are calm strokes to his hair, fingertips tracing his rib cage, and of course the old classic.

“Lovi,” Antonio says, voice husky with lust. They’re sitting on the couch in their apartment, dinner dishes abandoned on the coffee table, TV muted on the other side of the room. “I thought we were having a conversation.”

Lovino shifts to straddle his mate, grinding down on his tented trousers. He nuzzles into Antonio’s neck, cinnamon and salt. He’s never truly enjoyed their lovemaking before. Not in the sense that it’s uncomfortable or painful—on the contrary, Antonio endeavors to make it as pleasurable for Lovino as possible—but that Lovino never really feels present during it. He appreciates that it makes Antonio happy and, yes, there is a selfish part of him that enjoys having such power over someone. When Antonio collapses on top of him, boneless and gasping, Lovino stares up at the ceiling or over his shoulder at the TV and relishes the feeling of control.

Now, though, Antonio gently urges Lovino back so he can look up at him. “Lovi,” he says, voice firmer now, serious. “Stop.”

Lovino freezes. Antonio has never spoken to him like this—well, actually, that’s not true. He’s used this tone once before. Right before he told him, four months ago, that it might be best for them to take a break from each other. Lovino pulls back now, to see what Antonio’s face looks like. No real anger, mostly anxiety, concern. Nothing as dark as the dread clenched round Lovino’s heart.

“Stop,” Antonio says again, softer this time. “Listen to me. It’s not that I don’t want to have sex with you. I think you’re gorgeous and I’ll always think that, but this has to stop. If we just have sex after every argument we’ll never decide on anything.”

Lovino lets his gaze drop, silent. Their previous break was three weeks. How much longer will the next be, and the next? How many times will Antonio take him back before he decides he’s had enough of him altogether?

Antonio watches him for a long moment. “Are you afraid of me, Lovi?”

Lovino shakes his head, but he still doesn’t say anything because he’s lying. If he says something Antonio doesn’t like, he might leave him. They’re happiest when they aren’t talking, when Antonio laughs and everything is simple and Lovino can actually believe things will work out okay without any suffering on his part.

Antonio joins him in the quiet for at least a minute before he murmurs, “Maybe we should take a break.”

Lovino’s face falls before he can hide it and Antonio says, “I don’t want to hurt you. But I don’t want us to be stuck like this, either. It doesn’t make me happy. Are _you_ happy like this?”

The truth is of course he isn’t happy living this way, constantly worried he’ll do something to drive Antonio out of his life temporarily or for good. He’s gone from keeping a solid wall between himself and the world to nothing at all and now, after so long in quarantine, all contact hurts. _Nerve damage._

“I want to be able to talk to you,” Antonio says, palm smoothing over Lovino’s spine, “without you shutting down like this. I want to be able to argue with you, like I used to.”

“I’ll go,” Lovino says. His voice breaks halfway through, ruining his attempt to keep everything even. He hates that he cannot hide, hates every part of it from his trembling to his burning face to his shaking words. He was the strong one, once. Now he’s nothing.

“Oh, Lovi,” Antonio says, eyes bright with sympathy.

It kills him, but he doesn’t cry. He refuses to cry even as he digs his fingernails into his palms and bites the inside of his lip. Antonio tries to put his arm around him, a pose that has always lent both of them comfort, but Lovino can’t handle it right now. He stands up and says again, “I’ll go.”

He doesn’t wait for protest, just retreats to the bedroom and gets his overnight bag together. It always reminds him of changing houses growing up, the mad dash to grab belongings while the agency Omega waited impatiently in his car. So many tears shed from Feliciano, who never learned not to become fond of things no matter how much Lovino scolded him. Truth be told, no matter how much Lovino snapped about it, he himself was no better. He remembers the toys he always wanted to keep but could never bring: a doll with only one rubber shoe, a giraffe stuffie with a neck that could bend in all sorts of angles, a family of flat felt people who had lost so many clothes none could form a full outfit. Not that it mattered when they _did_ manage to bring things along; Lovino got into innumerable fights with other foster kids over theft. If you wanted to keep something, you had to keep it under your pillow or in your pocket. As it turns out, even that isn’t foolproof. After all, Lovino has always kept Feliciano as close as possible and he was still stolen away in the end.

Lovino finds Antonio waiting for him at the door of the apartment, car keys in his hand. Even when they’re separated, Antonio has always been there to take him where he needs to go. Lovino wishes he could meet him halfway, but he’s never been able to do that. Nothing is different now, except for how much Lovino hates himself for it.

* * *

Antonio drives him to the Beilschmidt house. In the darkening evening, Lovino can see through the living room windows: the flickering colors of a television screen and multiple heads over the back of the couch. When Lovino knocks, he sees a shadow move in the window; seconds later, Gilbert opens the door. His expectant expression melts into an easy smile when he recognizes Antonio and Lovino, then cools and sets to concern when he picks up on the miserable tension between them.

“Come on in,” he says, stepping aside.

Lovino obeys, but Antonio doesn’t move. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

Gilbert nods, joins him on the front step and closes the door. Lovino stands there in the hall, listening to the muffled rumble of their voices. This, too, reminds him of his past homes. He spent more time than he’d care to admit listening at doors, eager to hear what these strangers assigned to love him had to say on his behalf. He rarely heard anything about himself; usually it was about work, money, _how are we going to feed these kids._ Things Lovino didn’t understand, back then. Now he knows that they mean, but he’s still just as clueless about how to solve his problems.

“Who was it, Gil?” Matthew peeks out of the living room and smiles when he sees Lovino, but the look on his face makes the other Omega falter. “Everything okay?”

Lovino shrugs. That’s all he can manage right now.

Matthew, bless his heart, doesn’t pry. He pats Lovino’s shoulder in a way that would be patronizing from anyone else on the planet and says, “We’re all just watching TV, do you want something to drink? I’m on fridge duty tonight.”

“I think I’ll just go to bed,” Lovino replies. He can’t believe how flat his voice is. Corpses have had livelier lines.

Matthew nods. “Okay. Oh, I’m sorry, there’s some boxes down there—just kick ’em out of the way. We’re sort of . . .” He runs a hand through his curls, absently twining one rose gold strand around his finger. “. . . in-between right now.”

Lovino stares at him. He can’t muster amity, but he won’t take this out on someone who has always been friendly to him even at his worst.

Eyes narrowed slightly with secret delight, Matthew leans closer to whisper: “Ludwig is getting Feli a house for a wedding present.”

He looks so happy for them, and Lovino just feels this empty, shaky sadness. How would someone else react to this news about their brother? Bouncing, squealing, hugs all around? Lovino has never been that person, but now he doesn’t even know what the appropriate alternative is. Why doesn’t he know? How can he have no idea how to exist?

“Wow, that’s great news,” he says, feeling like a robot. Good thing he spent so long perfecting the soulless polite voice he used on the phone when he was a DDA secretary. “Could you tell Feli I have a headache? Thanks.”

He gives Matthew the closest thing to a smile he can manage and heads downstairs before he can upset anyone else tonight. His room in the basement isn’t really a room, just a section of the open space that isn’t taken up by the laundry area or the furnace. It’s always toasty warm in here because of the woodstove, but today it feels suffocating rather than cozy. Lovino has to displace no less than five boxes in order to pull out his futon bed. He changes his clothes and gets under the covers in almost-darkness, the only light coming from the top of the staircase that leads into the kitchen. Once he sees a shape block this light and wonders if it’s Feliciano, Matthew, maybe Gilbert. They all know, Feliciano best of all, not to bother him when his head hurts. Eventually the distant sounds of the TV stop and the kitchen light is shut off. The house falls silent. No one comes down to bother him. No one tells him goodnight.

He weeps to himself, hating the fact that he has to live inside this head. He doesn’t have a headache, but being inside it is definitely painful. He finds himself wishing Antonio hadn’t taken him here, to this house full of happy people. _Just drop me off on a street corner somewhere,_ he thinks. _Leave me with the rest of the things nobody wants._

When sleep comes, it’s a mercy.

* * *

The next morning, the dark things within Lovino feel significantly less jagged but he still stays in bed until nine a.m. Not because he’s sleepy, because the thought of climbing those stairs and emerging into a bustling kitchen full of a normal-functioning family makes him want to never get out of bed again. He hears showers running and doors closing. _Hopefully Gilbert and Ludwig are gone, at least._ There are no heavy Alpha footsteps, no deep voices calling down the hall for lost socks or a forgotten watch. At last, when the house is as silent as it was last night, Lovino rises from the dead and braves the kitchen.

Here is Matthew, sitting at the table with his laptop. Lovino watches him scroll through pages of baby clothes, toys, everything soft pastels and round shapes. He can’t imagine what else Romeo could ever need, with all these people to provide for him. _Spoiled,_ he catches himself thinking, and feels nasty for it. What adult envies a little pup? _Get over yourself._

Matthew smiles when he notices Lovino. “Are you feeling any better?”

Lovino shrugs again. Even if he is, it doesn’t matter. He’ll never be able to give these people the cheery house guest they deserve.

Matthew’s smile wilts a tad, but his eyes stay as warm as violet can. “You just missed Feli, he and Romeo went out to get the mail. He waited for you, but . . .”

Just what he needed: more guilt. Lovino pictures them for a moment, inconvenienced by his general state of failure, before he does away with the image. There comes a point where self-torture of any kind becomes masochistic, and he’s not ready for that kind of commitment. “I’ll catch him,” he says, and hurries out into the clear May air.

Feliciano only made it a few strides from the front step; he and Romeo are crouched in the grass, admiring the daisies and buttercups. Feliciano plucks one of the golden flowers from its stem and holds it under Romeo’s soft chin. “Do you like butter? Let’s see. You do! Here, see if I do.” He tips his head back to holds the petals under his own chin. Lovino watches the yellow glow appear on his skin, and Romeo gives a gap-toothed grin: “You like budder too!”

“Probably too much,” Feliciano remarks under his breath, his free hand on a curve that will never return to its size before his pregnancy (and for this, as he has assured him multiple times, Ludwig is eternally grateful). He brightens when he sees Lovino. “Let’s see if Uncle Lovi likes butter.”

Lovino submits to this prestigious examination, even though he’s never been particularly emotional one way or another about butter, and when it inevitably returns positive Romeo giggles in delight. “Everybody likes budder!”

Feliciano and Lovino take Romeo’s tiny hands and walk with him down the driveway. Feliciano natters about the usual inconsequential things—the weather, the birdsong, the epic tale of how he couldn’t for the life of him find Ludwig’s reading glasses after he’d set them down to clean them and he looked all over the house and wouldn’t you know it Romeo had taken them and was wearing them and he looked so cute and wasn’t it always the last place you looked—and when he eventually takes a breath, Lovino says, “Congratulations.”

His brother blinks, and Lovino adds, “On being a fiancé.”

Feliciano grins. “Thank you. I’m excited. I haven’t seen Ludwig in a tux yet.”

Lovino doesn’t say anything to that, because he doesn’t really get the appeal to the Beilschmidt brothers. Big muscles are like junk food to Lovino; good every once in a while, but not very nutritional in the long-run. Not that Lovino should be encouraging people to worry about personality over body, since he’s been spending so much time using his body to distract Antonio from his personality—or lack thereof, these days.

In the mailbox is a collection of bills (“I keep telling Gil to go paperless but he won’t remember to do it until Mattie says it”), a purple flyer announcing a benefit to be had at the firehall next weekend, and a nondescript envelope addressed to Lovino. “What’s that?”

“Not sure,” Lovino mutters, rotating it in his hands. No labels anywhere, no return address. He can’t remember the last time he got mail that wasn’t some automated government thing. Who would ever want to contact him?

“Open it,” Feliciano urges, curiosity piqued.

The look in his eyes strikes Lovino as juvenile, and he has always resented appearing that way himself. He’s also always hated surprises. These are his justifications for lowering the letter to his side and dismissing it: “It’s probably just something to do with taxes. Who cares.”

Feliciano purses his lips, dubious, but before he can say anything else about it he has to dive into the ditch to pull Romeo out before the pup can get covered in mud. Romeo provides an excellent distraction with his long-winded babbling—he definitely takes after his dam—and by the time they get back into the house, the mysterious letter is far from Feliciano’s mind. While Matthew and Feliciano play with Romeo in the living room, Lovino sneaks down to the basement again.

Lovino reads the letter.

Then he reads it again.

Then he sits slowly down on his bed and reads it a third time.

It’s written to him from an Omega named Marco Roselli, care of the agency who arranged houses for Lovino and Feliciano to live in once they became wards of the state. It is handwritten and dated in the upper right hand corner. This paper and ink are almost two decades old, and this is what they say:

 

_Dear Lovino and Feliciano,_

_This will be a shock to you if it reaches you and I apologize. I may regret this and tell the agency to shred it after I send it to them. I don’t know what I’m doing. Parents should know that, but I don’t. I’m sorry._

_My name is Marco Roselli. I am your birth dam. You probably don’t remember me, and I know Feliciano doesn’t. I’m sorry for that too._

_I’m arranging so this letter will be sent to you when Feli turns eighteen. The agency should be listing an address where you can find me. I don’t know where I’ll be when you get this. Maybe I’ll be dead, who knows. Maybe you won’t want to meet me after all this time. I wouldn’t blame you for that. But if you do, I think it’s only fair to give you a chance. God knows you’ve had enough odds against you as it is._

_If I never see you again, I hope you’re healthy and happy._

_May the Lord bless you and keep you._

_Marco Roselli_

 

Lovino’s first thought, once he gets over the natural astonishment that it’s even happening and is actually real, is that he can’t tell Feliciano. Like Marco said in the letter, he could be dead right now, or in some bad situation. Imagine Lovino giving Feliciano this world-shattering news, Feliciano getting his hopes up for some perfect new family member, and then Marco turns out to be some crack whore. Lovino can’t do that to Feliciano, especially not now when his brother has the pair-bonding ceremony and Romeo to worry about. He’s happy, he’s living his own life. He’s moved on from where Lovino is, somehow. Whether or not he validates it by calling it protecting his brother or putting his own feelings first for once, this is something he needs to do by himself.

Then again, his therapist—back when he still went to therapy—encouraged him multiple times to seek help when he needed it. He won’t burden Matthew with his sadness and he doesn’t know Ludwig well enough to talk to him about something this personal and Romeo isn’t old enough to provide emotional support. So he’s left with the detective.

He goes to Gilbert after supper that evening, when the German Alpha is in the garage, replacing the brakes on Ludwig’s car. Lovino observes him for a long moment, trying to think of the best way to bring this up. He waits so long, in fact, he ends up dreading the moment when Gilbert turns around and startles at the sudden sight of him. He can’t even do simple social interactions anymore, maybe he should just—

“Something you need?” Gilbert asks.

Lovino almost jumps out of his skin. “Do you have eyes in the back of your head or what?”

“No, but I have ears on the sides.” He glances over his shoulder, amused. “I don’t bite.”

Lovino edges a bit farther into the garage, loosely hugging himself. “I got a letter in the mail.” He scuffs his shoe across the concrete floor. “It was from my birth dam.”

“Really? Wow.” Gilbert surprises him by standing up and leaning back against the car, giving him his full attention. “That’s big. And rare. What did it say?”

“Well, it . . .” Perhaps too late, it strikes Lovino that it might be cruel to brag about being contacted by a birth parent to an orphan who has never found any trace of his own. _Why are you like this?_ He swallows and finds his throat is burning, sobs building deep down. He can’t talk about this; he can barely think about it. He shakes his head, looking fiercely at the wall as he tries not to push himself over the edge into tears.

Kindly, Gilbert asks, “Did you want me to read it?”

Lovino thrusts it into his hands at once.

Gilbert accepts the papers. He squints—he ought to have reading glasses like his brother, as Matthew routinely tells him—and reads it over, brow furrowed a bit at first but spiked toward his hair by the end. He folds the letter gingerly and says, “Well, this is even bigger news than I thought it was.”

Lovino nods, still choked up.

Gilbert puts his hands into his pockets, letting out a long breath. “So what do you think you’ll do?”

“I don’t know,” Lovino admits quietly. This might be the first time he’s told the truth in weeks.

“Do you want to meet your dam?”

“Yes. And no.”

“Why not?”

Lovino looks down at his shoes. They blur as tears finally prick his eyes. His voice is a painful rasp. “Why would he like me now if he didn’t want me before?”

He’s not sure what he expected to come from this, but it wasn’t one of Gilbert’s big, warm hands resting on his shoulder. “It’s not your fault, you know. It’s never the child’s fault.”

Lovino knows this is the voice Gilbert uses with frightened victims, but he doesn’t mind. He’s heard that sentiment before, too, but he’s never been able to fully believe it. More tears rush to his eyes, but he wipes them on his sleeve before they can fall.

“I would take you,” Gilbert adds, like it’s an afterthought, like it’s no big deal. “If you wanted me to.”

Lovino looks up at him expecting to see some sort of ulterior motive, yet he finds nothing but sympathy and _empathy_ and support. He doesn’t recognize the shy, small voice that comes from his mouth. “Would you go if your dam found you?”

Gilbert’s grey-red gaze falls to the middle distance, pensive. “Yeah, I think I would. Not for him, but for me. Just for . . . you know.” He focuses on Lovino again. “Closure.”

“Closure,” Lovino repeats softly. What glorious finality a word like that holds. That is what he wants. His wounds stanched, his heart made whole. If it’s possible, this is the way. “I think I will go. And if, I mean, if you wanted to come . . .”

“I do,” Gilbert says, smiling.

Lovino has to look at the floor if he has any hope of speaking. “Thank you.” His thoughts drift from the forgotten birth dam to all the foster parents who haven’t wanted him, all the different homes he’s stayed in, endless people’s lives he’s been shoved into and yanked back out of. Has he ever had closure for _anything_? Even Antonio is still a bloodied, fraying thread in his unravelling heart.

All at once, he’s absolutely sick of all those faces and houses and feelings haunting his past. He doesn’t want them tainting his conscience anymore. It’s not his fault, so everyone says. He shouldn’t have all this hurt inside him, doing nothing but dragging him down. He thinks, for the first time in his life, _I want to move on._

Then he says it: “I want to move on.”

Gilbert gives a nod of admiration. “That’s good. Healthy.”

“I want to visit all my old foster homes,” Lovino says. “So I don’t have them . . .” His words fail him, and he realizes Gilbert isn’t looking at his face anymore, and a second after that he realizes his free hand is over his heart. He drops it, and the German Alpha meets his gaze gently.

“I understand, Lovino. We can do that.”

“You don’t have to—”

Gilbert smiles again and repeats, “I understand.”

“That’s nice of you,” Lovino says quietly, then clears his throat and gestures to the car. “Can I . . . Is there something I can do do help you?”

“You could get me a box of apple juice,” Gilbert suggests, amused.

Lovino raises an eyebrow. “Do you drink anything other than apple juice anymore?”

“Well, I thought asking you to get me a beer would be a little too much.”

Lovino shakes his head. He’s never met someone with such a curse of gallantry. “You’re allowed to ask me to get you a beer.”

Uncertain, Gilbert says, “Okay. One beer. Please and thank you.”

Lovino turns to go get it and says over his shoulder, “I think you’re overdoing it a little, Scout leader.”

“I wasn’t raised to tell Omegas to get me a beer!” Gilbert calls after him, flustered.

In the kitchen, Lovino realizes he’s smiling to himself. It’s been a long time.

Perhaps he’s finally taking a step in the right direction.

* * *

They set off on their journey a few days later, when Gilbert has the day off. They tell everyone they’re going apartment hunting in a different county. _Why so far?_ Feliciano asks. _Is Toni moving to a different legal district?_ Lovino just shrugs and says, _We’re considering options, that’s all._ It all makes Gilbert further resent the stereotypical claim that Omegas make terrible liars. Lovino Vargas is one of the best liars he’s ever met. Feliciano isn’t too shabby, either. Matthew . . . well, Gilbert doesn’t mind that he turns pink and fidgety when he tries to be deceptive. It’s reassuring, for one thing—not that Gilbert has ever had reason to doubt his mate, but still—and adorable, for another.

Now, watching Lovino struggle with a zipper on his bag until with a low sound of strained frustration he finally jerks it together, Gilbert recalls what Antonio said to him when he dropped the Italian Omega off. _He doesn’t go to therapy anymore, he’d rather sit home by himself than go out and enjoy life. He hardly even speaks to me anymore. It’s like watching a fire go out and I don’t know what I can do to stop it._ Gilbert had told him he’d try his best to help Lovino, and Antonio had given him a back-slapping hug of gratitude.

While they’re taking their bags out to the car, Matthew pulls Gilbert aside. He leads him over to the oak tree Gilbert and Ludwig used to climb when they were kids. It’s a lot taller now, of course; Romeo won’t be able to climb it, but so far he’s content to only collect the acorns and leaves that fall from it. Matthew stands with his back against the trunk and peers nervously up at Gilbert.

Gilbert tucks some curls behind Matthew’s ear. “What’s wrong?”

Matthew bites his lower lip, looking up at him with bright eyes. Gilbert searches his face, but he can’t find very much fear, more excitement than anything. Gilbert can’t wait. “What?” he presses.

Matthew lifts up onto his tippy toes to whisper into Gilbert’s ear: “I’m pregnant.”

Gilbert’s eyebrows rise. He stares for a long moment. Soft sounds come from his throat before his brain finally resorts to echoing the previous statement. “What?”

Matthew smiles, almost trembling with his own delight. “I’m pregnant.”

Gilbert remembers to breathe. “Pregnant.”

Matthew frames his face with his hands. “We’re gonna have a baby.”

“A baby,” Gilbert whispers. His voice breaks and he wraps his arms around his mate, hugging him as tight as he dares, both of them shaking with hushed, joyful laughter.

“I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure,” Matthew says, nuzzling under his chin, “but this is the first night you’ll be away, so I just . . .”

Gilbert looks down at him. “You’re not worried, are you? About me leaving?”

“No, no, of course not. It’s just . . .” He looks down, too, at himself, then stretches up to kiss Gilbert. “Don’t stay away too long, Vati.”

Gilbert returns the kiss, both of them smiling. When he tries to pull back, he catches Matthew’s eye and the excitement returns: _a baby!_ His beautiful Matthew, carrying his pup. He embraces him again, rumbling deep in his chest so Matthew can hear and feel his love for him.

“I’ll call you tonight,” Gilbert says, and gives Matthew one last kiss before he ends Lovino’s suffering and joins him in the car. He can see the Italian Omega trying not to be nervous in the passenger seat and he decides not to spread the news just yet, even though he’s nearly squirming with elatement. When Lovino’s dealing with so many negative emotions, it might just make him feel worse to hear someone else’s good fortune. Besides, Gilbert doesn’t want to talk about it just yet. He hasn’t gotten over the fact that it’s actually real. He’s going to be a sire. He gave Matthew a pup.

_A baby!_

* * *

Their first stop is an hour away from their small town. This town is far from large itself, but it does have a staggering _two_ traffic lights. Lovino looks out all the windows as they drive down the one-way main street, trying to glimpse something he recognizes. He was barely six years old when he was last here, and every detail he takes in—black lampposts, hedges in need of trimming, an old brick library—he can’t tell if he’s remembering or imagining that he remembers.

They pull into the driveway of a pleasant middle class place not unlike the Beilschmidt house. This is the emergency home he and Feliciano were given to when their dam first gave them up. Lovino wonders why he has no recollection of it. PTSD, perhaps? Or maybe he was just an oblivious child.

Gilbert glances at him. “Do you remember this one?”

“No, I don’t. Not really. I can’t even remember when it happened.” He’s certain Feliciano has no memory of it, being little more than a toddler at the time. It strikes Lovino as incredibly lucky, now, that he and Feliciano weren’t separated because of their age difference or any other random factor of fate. He has no idea where he would be if he’d had to look after himself rather than someone else all these years.

Gilbert unbuckles his seatbelt. “Did you want me to come with you?”

Lovino freezes. “I—uh—”

“I don’t bite,” Gilbert reminds him, and gets out of the car. Lovino follows, sheepish.

Their knock is answered by a stranger. Lovino scans the Alpha’s features, seeking anything familiar, but he comes up blank. Fortunately the man is too distracted by Gilbert’s appearance—to the point where he recoils from the German Alpha as if he’d just been greeted by a ghost—to notice Lovino’s stare.

“I, um, I’m here for Thomas Maes?”

The Alpha’s brow furrows in bewilderment. “You have the wrong place, then.”

“Oh.” But they can’t have the wrong place; this is the address the agency gave him when he requested it two days ago. “Do you know where he went?”

“Listen, I’ve never heard the name before. He wasn’t the last owner here. Sorry.”

“Oh. Okay.” Lovino does his best to stifle his disappointment. “Thank you.”

The Alpha gives Gilbert one last weirded-out look before he closes the door.

Walking back to the car, Lovino keeps glancing back at the house. It’s nothing to him, really. The house might be vaguely familiar, the duplex across the street, the low curb, the gravel path. It’s nothing to him.

“Are you okay?” Gilbert asks, the first time he’s broken his silence.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Lovino says, and this time he actually means it. “Let’s go to the next one.”

Gilbert puts the car in drive. “Sounds good to me.”

* * *

After another fifty minutes of driving, they arrive at Lovino and Feliciano’s first real foster home. This one Lovino does remember: the inside is trashy, even though the yard isn’t too bad. Lovino recalls the black mold in the bathroom and crumbs on every surface, a sire who shouted all the time and a dam who snapped and pinched. There were two bedrooms for a dozen kids, split by Alpha and Omega. Lovino had to share a bed with his brother and two other pups, full of elbows and kicks and cries in the night. He remembers refusing food once—he will always, always hate corn chowder now—and being purposefully starved for a week. He remembers Feliciano being spanked until he cried and then being spanked himself for retaliating on his brother’s behalf. He hated every day he spent here, and the fact that his teachers got mad at him for having a bad attitude. No one got mad at his foster parents, of course. Nothing could ever be that fair.

In the car, Gilbert asks, “Are you alright?”

Lovino follows his gaze to see he’s holding the door handle with white knuckles. He loosens his grip and decides to tell the truth he was never brave enough to tell when he was a pup. “They weren’t good here.” He shoves the childish words away. The truth is ugly. He should not be kind to it. “They were abusive. That’s what they were.” The word is a firm, solid thing after so many swirling thoughts and unwieldy feelings. _Abusive._ That’s it. The end.

Gilbert regards him with quiet respect. “You don’t have to go knock on that door.”

“I know.” Lovino takes a deep breath. “I want to. They can’t say anything to me that’s worse than the things I’ve said to myself.”

Worry crosses Gilbert’s pale face, but he gets out and follows Lovino to the door. He knocks sharply enough that his knuckles throb. He will not be meek anymore.

The dam answers the door, but his face has changed. He’s aged, wrinkled. The same cruel features, but worse, dying. Lovino has never been so proud of his even skin, even though he knows that’s shallow. _Who cares._ It’s been so long since he felt this good about himself, he almost forgot what it was like. It feels powerful.

“Do you recognize me?” he asks.

The dam flicks his gaze up and down Lovino with disinterest. “No.”

“I was one of your kids,” Lovino says, keeping his chin up.

The dam squints at him. “What do you want?”

Lovino glances past him. The place reeks of cigarette smoke, and he sees wallpaper peeling inside. “You don’t still foster, do you?”

“Not anymore.”

“Why did you stop?” Gilbert asks, making both Omegas start with the abrupt hardness of his voice.

The dam scowls. “None of your damn business.”

“Don’t speak to people like that,” Lovino says. Irritation—not even rage, just annoyance—fortifies him. “You’ve never said a kind word in your life.” This is refreshing: getting rid of the blackness around his heart, but speaking these mean words that are true. “When you die, the world will be a nicer place.”

The dam’s lip is curled now, pissed off. “Get the fuck off my property before I call the police. I don’t have to listen to some bitch and a freak on my own doorstep—”

He starts to close the door in their faces, but Gilbert holds it open with his arm, glaring down at the older Omega. “I think you owe him an apology, now.”

Lovino didn’t plan on this, but yes, he does deserve an apology. Not for calling names, but for contributing to the horror of Lovino’s childhood and potentially ruining Feliciano’s, too. Lovino looks expectantly at the dam, who seems to be taken aback by Gilbert’s size and intensity.

“Whatever,” he replies. “Fine. Sorry. Now get out of here. I got enough problems without this shit coming back to haunt me.”

Gilbert glances at Lovino, who nods. The German Alpha lets the door close and says, “That wasn’t very genuine.”

“No,” Lovino agrees, “but that wasn’t the point.”

Gilbert considers the shabby siding of the house, a hint of a growl still lingering beneath his words. “They stopped fostering kids because they got caught abusing them. I guarantee it.”

Lovino nods. Either way, they won’t be hurting children anymore, so he’s glad.

Gilbert pauses before he opens the driver side door. “Did it make you feel better?”

Lovino considers. “Yes, I think so.”

Gilbert gives him a small smile. “Then I call that closure.”

Lovino kind of smiles, too. _Closure._

* * *

The next foster home is a relief after the last. The house is smaller—there were only ever three children here at one time—but it’s much nicer to look at, though the lawn is a bit overgrown. Lovino gives Gilbert the honors of knocking on the door.

The sire opens it. His face is wrinkled, too, from stress more than age. His tired eyes brighten when he sees Lovino, though. “You’re Lovino, aren’t you?”

Lovino nods, warmth spreading through him. “Do you remember me?”

“Yes, of course. You had a little brother.”

“Feli.”

“Right,” the sire says warmly. “Where is he?”

“He’s home. He has a pup now.”

The sire’s brow furrows, perhaps considering how old Feliciano must be and what it means for someone eighteen years old to have a pup, and Lovino adds, “He’ll be pair-bonded soon, too. They make a good little family.”

Now the sire smiles. “That’s nice. I’m sorry, do you want to come in? The house is a mess these days, but you’re welcome to sit for a few minutes.”

“Sure, thank you.” Lovino returns the smile, albeit fainter. “This is Gilbert, by the way. He’s a . . .” He glances up at him. “Friend.”

Gilbert smiles lightly at him and shakes the sire’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”

They’re led into the living room, where there are dusty pictures on the walls of past pups. The sire says, “You’re up there,” and Lovino sees himself and Feliciano, both of them grinning in pink rain slickers. They were happy here, while it lasted. “So,” the sire continues, “what brings you here, out of the blue?”

“I’ve been working my way through all the foster homes I lived in,” Lovino explains. “Just to see if anything has changed. And if I even remember them at all.”

The sire’s eyebrows lift. “That must be hard for you.”

“Actually, it’s a lot easier than I thought.”

At that, Gilbert smiles.

The sire leans back in the old brown armchair. “Well, nothing much has changed here, aside from . . .” He looks away, a small sigh gusting from his nose.

Lovino follows his gaze to the only photograph that isn’t dusty. It’s of his mate, the dam. Lovino remembers that face. Never contorted with anger. In fact, toward the end, he was too weak for an emotion so strong. Lovino remembers the confusion and sadness right before they had to leave, when the dam was always in the hospital and they had to have sandwiches for supper every night and, one night, Lovino found the sire crying at the kitchen table when he came downstairs for a glass of water. He can picture that little pup, standing in the shadowy hallway, watching an adult break for the first time in his life. He never said a word, just went back up to bed and trembled under the covers in silence. Lovino thought he and Feliciano could have happiness, but then they were pried from this peaceful place too. _You can be happy,_ he thinks, but he isn’t sure if he believes it. _Nothing lasts in this world. Especially not happiness._

“He passed away last year,” the sire says, with a rasp resigned to sorrow.

“I’m sorry,” Lovino says, and he really is. What a long timeline of suffering.

“He said it would be a relief to finally escape the pain.” The older Alpha scrubs a hand down his face. “So he’s in a better place now, and I’m glad about that. But . . .” He takes a deep breath and nods. “It’s been hard.”

Lovino nods, too. Gilbert joins him.

The silence stretches until Lovino asks, “Do you think I could go see the room before we leave?”

The sire nods. “Of course. It’s just holding old things now, full of cobwebs probably.”

“That’s okay.” Lovino’s already halfway across the room. He bounds up the stairs and straight to the bedroom that used to be his. The two beds are still here. Boxes all over the place. Cobwebs aplenty where anything forms a corner. Lovino pictures himself and Feliciano on the floor, playing with dolls and toy horses, all of them secondhand from the foster parents’ birth children, long ago grown up and moved away. Lovino finds himself tearing up and he wonders why it’s this place, where he was carefree and happy, that gives him sadness now rather than the places where he and his brother suffered. _Because it’s gone,_ he thinks, _and I can’t have it again._ He runs his fingertips over the corrugated surface of a cardboard box, vision rippling and blurring with unfallen tears. He doesn’t want to cry here. So much happiness is associated with this place in his mind, and now the reality is so different, the past is so completely gone, how can anyone ever get closure with that—

A hand on his shoulder. He turns.

Gilbert is standing in the doorway with a gentle smile. “Okay?”

Lovino nods, blinking quickly and pinching tears from his eyes. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

Gilbert inclines his head. He gives Lovino’s shoulder a supportive squeeze. “Say goodbye.”

It feels very juvenile, but it feels pretty _right_ , too, because in a way the thing he’s saying goodbye to is his childhood. Of course it’s juvenile. _There’s nothing wrong with that._ Lovino lets his eyes trail over all the things that will, from now on, only exist in his mind. “Goodbye,” he whispers to the room, the house, the memories.

Then he lets Gilbert lead him downstairs, and he shakes the sire’s surprisingly soft hand. “It was good to see you again, Lovino,” says the old Alpha. “You’ve grown up into a fine young Omega. I’m sure you’ll do great things.”

It’s a speech you’d see at any graduation ceremony, but Lovino doesn’t mind. He thanks him with a small but genuine voice and follows Gilbert back out to the car. This time, Lovino twists around to watch the house disappear in the rear window, smaller and smaller until it’s gone.

_Goodbye._

* * *

And, of course, the group home. Only Omegas are allowed to live here, and it’s still going strong with—as far as Lovino can tell—not a single thing changed, right down to the crack in the sidewalk and the torn screen in one of the windows. Lovino was going through puberty when he first came here; he had his first heat locked into one of the little rooms. They were given more independence here than in any other place, because they had no real parents here, just matrons who were paid to cook and clean and make sure no one died. Beyond that, it was up to the young Omegas to find a pecking order among each other and sit pretty on the rare occasion potential parents came in. Feliciano hated it for how impersonal it was, but Lovino appreciated that. He was sick of the facade of so-called loving parents. Now there was no lie. They didn’t care about him, and the certainty of the knowledge was a comfort.

When the door opens, it’s an Omega matron Lovino doesn’t recognize and he’s pushing Gilbert backward. “What do you think you’re doing here? No Alphas are allowed inside without making an appointment. We have two in Heat right now, for God’s sake.”

“Oh.” Gilbert holds up mollifying hands and backtracks halfway down the lane. “Sorry.”

“He’s retired now,” says the matron when Lovino inquires after the one he knew. “We’re a little busy right now, did you actually need something?”

 _Need?_ He’s been spoiled by the kindness of the sire. He shakes his head. “No, sorry to bother you. I just came to see how this old place was doing.”

“We’re doing alright.” The matron gives a smile that looks more like a grimace. “Thanks.” He must see something pitiful in Lovino’s face because he adds, “Maybe come by when we’re not so busy? You know how it is. Lots of first-timer heats.”

“Yeah,” Lovino says, even though he’ll never come back.

“Nice to meet you both,” the matron says. The door closes.

Back to the car they retreat. “Well,” Gilbert says carefully, “that was quick.”

“Yeah,” Lovino says again. He doesn’t want to, but he feels hurt by it, like he got ushered out because he isn’t worth anything to them here. All of the emotions inside him are building to a toxic cocktail now, but Gilbert distracts him before he can drink it: “Are you hungry? We passed a little takeout place on the way here.”

“Yeah,” Lovino says a third time, head resting against the window. “I am hungry.”

_Hungry, empty, same difference._

* * *

The takeout joint is tiny but the space around it is vast: a great gravel lot for eating in your car when the mosquitoes were out with a vengeance, and a grassy field with a herd of picnic tables for when the children wouldn’t stop screaming on a summer road trip. The faded-paint menu board reports chicken, burgers, hot dogs, and seafood are available, but Lovino refuses to partake in the latter because he doesn’t hate himself that much just yet. He settles for chicken fingers and fries while Gilbert orders himself a hamburger and a hot dog. Lovino feels a small spark of guilt—Lovino has always eaten like a bird, and he never thought to ask Gilbert if he was hungry at any point today—but he doesn’t have the energy to do anything about it.

Gilbert brings their tray—itself made of a halved cardboard box—over to the picnic table Lovino has collapsed on. Gilbert sets down their dinner of fish-scented grease and asks, “How are you feeling about all this?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it right now,” Lovino says, without lifting his head from his arms. He gives a droopy French fry a half-hearted bite. “I just want a break from thinking.”

“Okay.” Gilbert thinks about Antonio’s plea and his promise to try and help Lovino. He wonders how he can ask about relationships without coming right out and saying it. He wishes he had Francis’s finesse with this sort of thing, or even Arthur’s directness. His own inelegance with words will get him nowhere at best and piss Lovino off at worst. So he eats a fry and eventually says, “I’m glad you consider me your friend.”

Lovino glances at him, then swiftly away. “Of course I do. You’ve helped me and Feli out a lot. I owe you—”

“No, you don’t,” Gilbert cuts in. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Lovino only shrugs one shoulder, eyes blank.

Gilbert doesn’t know where the hell to go with that, so he says, “Can I ask you a question about Toni? Or is that something else you don’t wanna talk about?”

Lovino stares at his fries. “You can ask.”

“Do you want to be with him?”

The Italian Omega shuts his eyes. “Yes. I don’t know. Yes. I think. Yeah.”

Gilbert smiles a little at that. “I know he loves you.”

“I don’t know what love is supposed to feel like.”

Gilbert considers that, because there was a time not long ago when he had no idea either. “Like you feel happiest when you’re with the person, I guess. Like you want to keep them safe however you can.”

“Then I guess I love him.”

“You don’t sound sure,” Gilbert points out, working not to sound at all antagonistic.

“Well, I want him to be safe, but I’m not always happy with him. I’m not happy very often anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

There’s something left unsaid, though, and Gilbert can hear it just as clearly as he hears when victims are too afraid to say words that can save them. Gently, he says, “Toni wishes you were happy. So does Feli, and Matt. And me.”

“Well, we don’t always get what we want.”

“Sometimes,” Gilbert murmurs, “that’s because we don’t let people help us.”

Lovino lifts his head, staring at Gilbert for a long moment without his expression ever shifting from its brittle veneer of indifference. Then, without warning, he stands up and says, “I’ll be in the car.”

Gilbert watches him stalk away and get into the back rather than the passenger seat. Gilbert is left to finish eating by himself, but he doesn’t really feel like it now. It’s maddening, this distance Lovino insists on keeping between himself and his loved ones. Gilbert wants to cross it, but he stands with Antonio on one side of a chasm while Lovino waits on the other. The Omega holds the bridge; it’s up to him to throw it across. All they can do is wait, ready to catch it, but you can only hold your arms out for so long before they lose their strength and fall.

Gilbert throws out the wasted food and gets in the car. Lovino doesn’t say another word.

* * *

Half an hour later they’re in a motel room defined primarily by its eggshell white walls and eyesore shag carpet. Lovino still hasn’t spoken to him, except to announce, “I’m going to take a bath.”

“Okay,” Gilbert says. He wants to say something like _enjoy it_ without sounding weird or creepy, but Lovino’s long gone by the time anything acceptable comes to mind. Gilbert moves his Lovino-related worries to the back of his mind for now, because his phone is ringing and _Liebling_ along with a photo of Matthew snuggled against his chest during a nap appears on his lock screen. “Hey, sweetheart.”

“Hi.” He can hear the smile. “How’s the search going?”

“Good.” They planned the lie in advance—just a white lie and only temporary—but Gilbert isn’t psyched about delivering it. “We’re at the motel now. I hope your dinner was better than ours.”

“Of course,” Matthew says, amused. “I don’t know what’ll happen when Feli and Ludwig leave. I’ll have to take some cooking classes.”

“Or we’ll live off pancakes,” Gilbert says, smiling to himself. “And beer.”

“No beer,” Matthew scolds, but he’s only teasing. “I miss you.”

“Hug a pillow and pretend it’s me.”

“But pillows don’t hug back.”

Gilbert grins at the pouted words. “How’s Romeo?”

“Oh, he’s good. We did some dancing today.”

“Oh?”

“Yup. Lots of disco. He’s got better moves than me.”

“ _What_? No. Never.”

“Gil!”

He hopes Matthew will never outgrow his giggles. “Hey, I never said I could dance at all. We’ve only danced once and I stepped on you.”

“To be fair, I was in your way.”

Gilbert thinks back to the last time they tried to waltz, home along for once, a hand on Matthew’s waist, smiling against each other’s lips. Oh, he misses the sweet scent of those curls. “How are you feeling?”

A muffled rustling, the sound of a body shifting against pillows. “Tired, right now. Why?”

“No back aches? Cramps? Sudden pup pain?”

“You’ll have to wait two more trimesters for that, Gil.”

He takes a moment out of his excitement to be thankful that this is happening now and not a decade ago when he would’ve cringed at the thought of asking an Omega about cramps. “Maybe I’ll buy some baby clothes.”

“Okay, but you can’t buy baby stuff every time you leave the house.”

“That sounds like a challenge.”

Matthew laughs. “I’ll text you goodnight when I go to bed.”

“I’ll text you back.”

His voice dips lower, the way it sounds when they’re lying together, a low murmur only meant for him. “I love you.”

Gilbert closes his eyes, just for a second, to imagine he’s close enough to nuzzle his mate’s hair and slip the words into his ear. “I love you, too.”

“Bye-bye.”

Just as he hangs up, Lovino suddenly steps out of the bathroom. He’s fully clothed and agitation crackles around him like electricity. Gilbert is surprised to see him; he didn’t even hear the water draining from the tub. “Where are you going?”

“For a walk,” Lovino says shortly, letting the door slam behind him.

* * *

After a few moments of deliberation, Gilbert decides to give the Omega his space for now. _This is parenting practise,_ he thinks. No use chasing down an angsty teenager until they’ve blown off some steam. He sits back on the couch, turns on the TV. It’s been a while since he could watch something with coarse language and violence.

Once an hour has passed with no sign of Lovino, however, Gilbert doesn’t remain seated. What if Lovino got lost? What if someone came along and snatched him up? He’s a strong Omega, yes, but he’s still only of delicate build. It would be too easy for someone Gilbert’s size to put a hand over his mouth and drag him away. The thought has Gilbert up and out of the motel room, thumbs tapping out a text asking Lovino where he is. One minute passes, then two—then his phone lights up and buzzes a call. Lovino’s number. Gilbert answers it.

“Lovi baby doesn’t wanna talk to you right now,” slurs the obnoxiously loud Alpha voice on the other end.

“Who the hell is this?” Gilbert demands, but the line goes dead before any response gets through. _Lovi baby?_ But between the slurred speech and the music in the background, it seems a safe bet that they’re in the bar they passed on the way to the motel. Probably a twenty-minute walk, but only a few minutes in the car.

When he walks through the door, the very first thing he sees is Lovino sitting on the lap of a middle-aged Alpha, both of them three sheets to the wind. The Alpha’s hand is on Lovino’s ass and Lovino is smiling, but there’s no life in his eyes. Gilbert wonders how ugly this would be if it was Antonio here instead of him. _Be grateful for that,_ he thinks to the older Alpha, then approaches and says, “Lovi, I think it’s time for you to get out of here.”

The Italian Omega swats at Gilbert, fingertips catching clumsily on his shirt. “Leave me alone.”

“Yeah, leave him alone,” agrees the Alpha, with a slight claiming rumble to the words.

Gilbert can feel the beast rising, but for the sake of the other customers he tamps it down. “Lovino. I really think you shouldn’t be here.” He reaches out to take his hand. “You’re bound to make a bad decision—”

Lovino wrenches his arm free. “Stop it! Leave me alone!” He jerks unsteadily to his feet. “Just because your life is perfect doesn’t mean you can boss me around! I don’t listen you you like Matthew and Feli do. I’m not your slave.”

His eyes are red with tears and alcohol and his words are slurred so wildly in places Gilbert has no idea what he said, and all he can feel for him is sympathy. As clearly as he can, he says, “I understand that you’re an adult and you can make your own decisions, and normally I wouldn’t do this, but you’re drunk. Off your ass. So let’s go.”

And with that, Gilbert picks Lovino up, throws him over his shoulder, and carries him out of the bar. The older Alpha curses at them as he’s left behind, and Lovino kicks and hits Gilbert’s back, but it’s feeble and his protests trail off into miserable moans by the time they reach the car. Gilbert puts him in the passenger seat and Lovino folds over himself, looking pretty green. “Please don’t throw up in my car,” Gilbert says, “that’s all I ask.”

 _“Giiiiiillllllll.”_ In the motel bathroom, Lovino groans like a tortured ghost haunting hapless mortals. He’s been on the floor since they got back, alternating between throwing up into the toilet and requesting an end to his suffering.

“There’s not a whole lot I can do for you,” Gilbert tells him as he replaces the cool cloth on his forehead. “You can’t have anything left in your stomach now, at least.”

Incorrect, as it turns out; Lovino retches up more and Gilbert holds his hair back until he relaxes again onto the tiles. The soft brown locks in his hands brings Feliciano’s voice to mind: _I don’t know why Lovi has his hair long now, he always said he hated having it like that. He said it got in the way too much. Now he wears it like he doesn’t want anybody to see his face._ He didn’t know how right he was.

“I hate me,” Lovino croaks, eyes shut against the pain and the light.

“Don’t hate you,” Gilbert says, once the toilet has finished flushing.

“I’m disgusting.”

Gilbert smooths his hair. Not as fun to touch as Matthew’s curls, but very warm. “I’ve seen disgusting. More than my fair share, in fact. You’re not it. Trust me.”

Lovino gives a soft whimper. “I wish I didn’t exist.”

Gilbert wants nothing more than to gather the Omega against his chest and soothe him, but Lovino is not his Omega and, even if he was, moving him may not be the best plan right at the moment. “Everybody feels that way sometimes,” Gilbert murmurs, still stroking his hair. “It’s okay.”

“. . . Say that again.”

Gilbert tilts his head a little, but he obeys. “It’s okay.”

Lovino’s taut body goes limp and he rasps, “Again.”

“It’s okay.”

They stay like this for fifteen minutes, Gilbert again and again stroking Lovino’s hair and whispering _It’s okay_ until the Omega finally falls asleep there on the floor. Carefully, Gilbert picks him up and carries him to bed. It doesn’t seem right to make him sleep in his clothes, but it seems even less right to undress him, so Gilbert settles for unbuttoning the topmost button on his blouse—on the off-chance it pulls tight against his throat in sleep—before tucking him in.

After that, he watches TV on mute until Matthew texts him goodnight. Gilbert returns the text and wishes sweet dreams to his sweetheart, then finally goes to bed himself.

* * *

Lovino wakes up to a pounding headache and some aspirin and orange juice for breakfast, courtesy of Gilbert. The German Alpha doesn’t tell him exactly what happened last night—all Lovino can remember is the tormented walk to the bar—but he maintains that nothing bad happened, aside from lots of vomiting. “You just needed some help,” Gilbert says. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Lovino isn’t so sure about that—he thinks there’s something quite wrong with a good person like Gilbert Beilschmidt having to deal with the nastiness of Lovino’s moods—but his hangover lends him compliance. “Okay. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Gilbert picks up both their bags, carries them out to the car. “Are you nervous?”

 _I wasn’t until you said that._ “Right now I just feel sick, mostly.”

“Well, that might be a good thing,” Gilbert says, letting the trunk fall shut. “You’ll be distracted.”

Lovino rubs his temples. “I didn’t really envision this happening when I was hungover.”

“Life is full of surprises.”

Lovino gives him a pointed glance. “Congratulations on the baby.”

The German Alpha smiles sheepishly. “Matt hasn’t told anyone yet. He only told me yesterday, before we left.”

“It’s exciting.” But Lovino feels the same prickly numbness about it he feels about Feliciano’s upcoming pair-bond. Has he lost the ability to exist in the moment? Is that what’s wrong with him?

“Yeah, it is.” Gilbert can barely fight a grin.

“You’ll be a good sire,” Lovino says, then corrects himself: “You’ll be a great sire.”

Gilbert ducks his chin a little, a rare gesture from the self-assured Alpha. “You sound so sure.”

“Of course I’m sure. You’re already a great uncle to Romeo. I wish—” He stops, then carries on with a quieter voice, gaze lowered. “I wish I’d had a sire like you.”

Without hesitation, Gilbert wraps him up in an embrace. Lovino allows it to comfort him for ten lovely seconds before he pulls back and says, “Toni gives better hugs than you. His are softer.”

Gilbert walks away to get into the car, but he looks at Lovino over the roof, amused. “That’s because Toni’s idea of a workout is having sex.”

“Well.” Lovino drops into the passenger seat. “He’s good at it.”

Gilbert glances at him, teasingly eager. “Really? No embarrassing anecdotes? No secrets you can accidentally let slip?”

Lovino arches an eyebrow as much as he can with his head throbbing. “I’ll tell you one of Toni’s if you’ll tell me one of Matt’s.”

Gilbert’s features crinkle with reluctance, and Lovino says, “There you go. No double standards, Detective Beilschmidt.”

“Alright, fair enough. But at least tell me this.” Gilbert twists around to see out the back window as he reverses from the parking spot, then leans close to whisper to Lovino: “The first time. Just between you and me. How long did he last.”

Lovino almost snorts, but he preserves his composure valiantly. “It’s not like I was holding a stopwatch.”

“Ballpark.”

“Approximately four minutes.”

Gilbert presses his lips together to stifle his laughter, and Lovino feels a surprising rush of protectiveness and says, “Now tell me how long you lasted _your_ first time. With Matthew. Ballpark.”

Now his levity vanishes and he says, “Er. Well. Let’s just say we’ve all been there.”

They both stare straight ahead, Gilbert’s ears a bit pink and Lovino’s cheeks burning a little, until they both sneak a sidelong glance and they both burst out laughing. Lovino realizes he doesn’t want to fight it, even though it’s loud and it probably doesn’t look very flattering. Somehow, he doesn’t feel so hideous now. Perhaps laughter isn’t the best medicine, but it makes a fine tonic.

* * *

The address supplied by the agency leads them to a normal-looking house in a sleepy neighborhood of other normal-looking houses. Chestnut tree in the front yard, hostas beside the doorstep, one-car garage, paved driveway. No sign of any _dark place_ Marco mentioned in his letter, not that Lovino expected to be taken to some leaky shack under an overpass. Not that he expected anything at all. He hasn’t been able to think anything other than, _This is actually happening._

When the car is put in park, the reality truly sets in, along with its everlasting companion, anxiety. “Maybe it’s not a good time.”

Gilbert gets out, fearless. “It’s a good time.”

Walking to the front door, Lovino says, “Maybe he tried to cancel the letter but it didn’t work.”

“I don’t think that’s likely. Adoption agencies are very strict about privacy.”

The reasonable words do little to sway his racing thoughts. On the doorstep, he says, “Maybe he doesn’t even live here.”

Gilbert smiles. “Ring the doorbell, Lovi.”

So Lovino rings the doorbell and waits for the longest thirty seconds of his life.

The door opens.

A thirty-something Omega with Lovino’s face and Feliciano’s hair stares at them with utter astonishment until he gathers himself to say, “Lovino.”

He can’t speak.

His dam offers a hand and a shaky smile. “I’m Marco. But I guess you already knew that, if you’re here.”

Lovino shakes the hand, vaguely aware of how clammy his palm is all of a sudden. He cannot believe he is shaking his dam’s hand like this is a business deal. Shouldn’t it be a hug? But how can he hug a stranger?

A voice somewhere deeper in the house says, “Was it Jakob?”

Then there’s a young Omega beside Marco, twelve years old at the most, who stares up at them in surprise and a little fear when he notices Gilbert’s albinism.

“No, it . . .” Marco looks at the pup, then at Lovino. “It’s my pup.” A brief glance at Gilbert. “And his friend.”

Finally, Lovino finds his voice. “You have another . . .”

“He’s my mate’s son,” Marco replies quickly. “My step-pup.” He turns to the kid again. “Could you wait for Jakob outside, honey?”

_Can I be a honey? Would I have been a honey?_

The pup goes outside, edging past Gilbert as if he expects to be abducted at any second. Marco leads the guests into the kitchen, where they sit down with coffee—again, the formalities of _just milk is fine_ and _I’ll take it black, thanks_ make Lovino think he’s at a cafe rather than the home of long-lost family—and collectively slouch under the weight of unasked questions.

“Well,” Marco says at last. “I think I should just explain to you why all this happened the way it did. Then you can ask questions after. Sounds good?”

Lovino can only nod. Beneath the table, Gilbert’s knee leans against his, lending solidarity. Marco takes a deep breath, and begins:

“I wasn’t fit to be a parent when you and Feliciano were born. I said this in the letter, but it’s true and I’ll say it again. I had no idea what I was doing back then. Honestly, sometimes I still don’t. But I have a network of people to help me, now. I didn’t back then. Keeping you and your brother put you in danger, so I let you go. I could tell you I didn’t want to, but I would mostly be lying. Of course I felt like I had to protect you both, like any dam does, but . . . I was just really in over my head back then. Having two pups to worry about was way, way too much for me. And I know the foster system is not great, but I had to believe it was better for you than the situation you’d been born into.

“The Alpha I was with when Feli was born was abusive to me. I don’t know for sure if he was Feli’s sire or not. Like I said, I was in a dark place that was not fit for children at all. I didn’t trust him around you two, but I had nowhere else to go. It took me a while to get away from him, but eventually I did. I got cleaned up, I got a job, and I found people to help me. And I met the Alpha I’m mated to now. I still have low times, but my life is happy on the whole. I’m sorry I couldn’t have all of this figured out before you were born.”

Lovino lets all this sink in, inky and black. It’s not entirely new to him—he always assumed, logically, that his parents weren’t prepared for pups and that’s why he was given up—but it’s different to hear it confirmed. It’s good and bad at once, good that it wasn’t something Lovino did wrong and bad for Marco’s sake. Perhaps Lovino has blocked all of this out. PTSD doesn’t sound so far-fetched now.

“But,” Lovino says slowly, “why didn’t you want to tell us until we were adults?”

“I’m sorry.” Marco lowers his head. His eyes are hazel, just like Lovino’s. “I wish I could tell you a nicer story, but I can only tell you the truth. I owe you that.” He meets Lovino’s gaze. “I didn’t want to see you when you were still minors because I worried I would feel so guilty that I would take you back. And that wouldn’t have been fair to you. I was in a really dark place for a really long time, and like I said, I still go back there sometimes. But things are better for me now.” He offers a rueful smile. “I just hope they’re better for you, too.”

Lovino thinks about Antonio, Feliciano, Gilbert, Roma. Warm hands, bright smiles, safe arms, guilty eyes. He thinks of looking in the mirror and seeing eyes red-rimmed with tears and lips stained with lies. Certain parts of his life have left holes in his heart, but on the whole: he’s no longer being strung along a line of homes outside his control. He finally has the right to choose who he spends his time with, and a pack he can trust.

“Yes,” he says. “I’m better now than I have been most of my life.”

Marco smiles. “I’m glad for that. And I’m so sorry for what you’ve had to live through.” He sits up straight and offers his arms, almost shyly. “Do you want a hug?”

“Can I just, um. Have a second.” He stands up before anyone says yes or no, because the tears are already coming. He runs out of the room, upstairs, and slumps down on the floor in the hallway, sobbing. He squeezes his knees to his chest and buries his face in his arms.

He hears footsteps and expects it to be Gilbert, but it’s Marco. He slides down the wall beside Lovino, legs stretched out in front of him. His socks don’t match. “Why are you crying, Lovi?”

“Because I wish I hadn’t been born at all,” Lovino says, each word painful with his throat full of sobs. “You didn’t want me.”

“I _did_ want you,” Marco says patiently. “I just couldn’t care for you.”

Lovino lets his head fall again. “It doesn’t matter. You still gave me up. I was a burden to you.”

“You were _not_ ,” Marco says with intensity now. “Don’t say something like that. It’s not your fault at all, Lovino, and don’t ever believe that it is. It could never be your fault, you were only a pup. And you still are. My pup.” Marco puts an arm around his shoulders. “You said things are better for you, but you have so much pain inside you. I can see it.” He searches all of Lovino’s face that he can see from his position, stroking his cheek with the back of two fingers. “Why do you hurt like this, hon?”

Lovino tries to find a truth for the terrible emotions inside him. Finally, all he can come up with is “I deserve it.”

Marco frames his face with his hands. “What you deserve is to be happy. You deserve to be loved, Lovino Vargas.”

At that, Lovino just crumbles. He sobs into Marco’s shirt. He should smell familiar, but he doesn’t. He uses a different detergent and shampoo and soap than Lovino does. He doesn’t smell like family, but he smells like comfort right now, because he is someone who is here for him. He doesn’t demand that Lovino say anything. He knows what _he_ has to say, and he says it: “You are loved, Lovino. It’s okay.”

Lovino has no idea how much time the spend holding each other on the floor, but when they finally find their feet and go downstairs the clock on the wall—shaped like a cheerful cartoon cow—says it’s nearly lunchtime. Gilbert is where they left him, with the addition of an orange tabby cat which he is cuddling on his lap. He smiles when he sees the Omegas, silently asking, _Everything okay?_ Lovino nods, returning the smile weakly. _It is now._

* * *

Marco makes them excellent sandwiches for lunch. Lovino’s throat is still sore, so Gilbert tells Marco about Feliciano, then about Ludwig and Romeo. He mercifully leaves out the story about Francis and lets Lovino finish: “I didn’t want to tell him about this until after I’d met you. I wanted to protect him in case it didn’t go well.”

Marco nods. “I understand if Feli doesn’t want to see me, but I’d love to meet Romeo.”

“I’m sure he’d love to meet you, too,” Lovino says. It’s easy to be sure of a heart like Feliciano’s. If Lovino can be even half as forgiving as his brother, he thinks happiness could be within his grasp. It will be hard to have that and protect himself too, but perhaps he can let someone else do that for once.

Marco gives both Lovino and Gilbert a maternal hug on their way out. They make sure they have each other’s numbers and emails, and they make plans to meet again in two weeks’ time. _I’ll come to you this time,_ Marco said. _I’d love to meet your Toni._

In the car, Lovino doesn’t feel like he wants to cry. He doesn’t feel disgusting. He just feels—warm.

Gilbert smiles fondly. “I’m proud of you.”

Lovino reclines his seat a little, basking in it. Closure, as it turns out, is so sweet. “I’m proud of me, too.”

* * *

“Take me to Toni’s office,” Lovino says when they’re back at the intersection that leads into their blessedly familiar town. Gilbert glances at him with a knowing smile and turns the blinker off. In the DA office parking lot, Lovino says, “You don’t have to wait.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

They exchange a smile and Gilbert says, “I’ll see you around, Lovi.”

Away he goes. Lovino heads inside. He hasn’t been here for months, but it still looks and smells the same aside from the new water cooler and the different month on the kittens calendar. He greets the older secretary he used to work with and the younger Omega who replaced him, then goes through to the DDA’s private office. The door is ajar, so he pushes it open without knocking.

Francis is standing on the edge of his cluttered desk and tossing grapes at Antonio, who dives around the small space, both of them laughing as he tries to catch the little purple projectiles in his mouth. When Lovino clears his throat and raises an eyebrow, they both freeze, terrified for a split second that Basch is about to fire them. Then Francis hops down from his desk and Antonio stands up straight, hands behind their backs like innocent schoolboys.

“Getting lots of work done?” Lovino asks, arms folded over his chest.

“Always,” Antonio says, eyes bright just by virtue of seeing Lovino again, though they held a question too. Their past separations ended with a lonely phone call at night and not much in the way of thought. _I need you here. Come get me, please._ The talking happened the next morning. This is a reverse of the established order, and Antonio doesn’t know what the rules are. To his credit, Lovino doesn’t really know, either.

Francis grabs some papers from his desk. “I need to photocopy these, I’ll leave you to it.”

Lovino steps out of the doorway, lowers his gaze when Francis approaches, but at the last moment he looks up. The French Alpha glances at him and Lovino finds none of the hatred he expected to see. Instead, Francis looks just as meek as Lovino feels. There’s just guilt and forgiveness. The past is in the past. Lovino gives Francis a tiny nod. Francis returns it with his usual warmth and pulls the door mostly shut behind him, leaving Lovino and Antonio alone.

“So . . .” Antonio notices how crooked his tie is and straightens it. “How was your stay in the Beilschmidt Hotel?”

“Actually, I wasn’t there last night, I was in an actual hotel. With Gil.” Antonio’s eyes widen and Lovino adds quickly, “My birth dam contacted me. I asked Gil to go with me to meet him.”

A little bit of hurt enters those green eyes, but surprise overpowers it. “Ah. Wow. How did that go?”

“It was . . . really, really good. It made me think a lot about myself and my childhood and . . . and my future.” Lovino doesn’t enjoy saying things like this, but it’s a relief that they’re only words now. The actual emotional work is done. “I want to apologize to you. And to myself. But mostly to you right now, because the way I’ve been treating you hasn’t been fair at all.”

Antonio nods a little. “I accept your apology. But I’m more concerned about the one you’re giving yourself.” A half-hearted grin. “And whether or not you mean it.”

Lovino crosses to him and takes his hands. “I want to be happy. I know that’s not some big revelation for most people, but I’ve never even bothered trying to be happy because I thought it wasn’t possible for me. But now I want to try.” He gives the warm hands a small squeeze. “And if I can be happy, I want to be happy with you.”

His smile is full-hearted now. “I wanna be happy with you, too.”

“I won’t be good at it at first,” Lovino warns.

“That’s okay. I’ll help you. But you have to talk to me.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Good.” Antonio sneaks a kiss to the tip of Lovino’s nose. “I’ll always want to hear what you have to say, Lovi.”

Tears gather in Lovino’s eyes, but this time they’re happy ones because it’s again someone telling him he deserves to be heard, he deserves, he is worth something, he is a good person, he is allowed to be loved. Lovino closes his eyes. “Thank you.”

Antonio rests their foreheads together. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Lovino whispers it into Antonio’s mouth and they kiss, oranges on Lovino’s tongue and cinnamon on Antonio’s, the bitter at last vanquished by the sweet.

* * *

“Oh my goodness,” Francis gasps, wiping tears from his eyes. “Look how gorgeous he is.”

“Would you pull yourself together,” Arthur hisses. “It’s only a wedding.”

“What kind of cake do you think they got?” Alfred whispers in the row behind them.

“Probably white,” Lars mumbles, trying to remain as proper as he can.

“Shhhh.” Gilbert casts a disapproving grey-red stare across the aisle.

Beside him, Matthew gives an apologetic smile to the other guests and folds his hands over his belly.

“Best behavior or the punisher’ll get you,” Antonio says under his breath, and Lovino elbows him but smiles. On his lap, Romeo smiles too, bouncing in delight when he sees Roma walk Feliciano down the aisle. Marco was offered the role but declined after he was introduced to the reverend. Not all the members of this pack are happy that Roma is here, but they’ve put those feelings aside for Feliciano. And Ludwig, as well, who can barely get his vows out now that he has his stunning mate standing in front of him in white jeweled splendor.

Feliciano and Ludwig are traditional enough to do the tux-and-dress look and for Feliciano to take his Alpha’s name, but they don’t do a claiming bite or scenting. They just have a long, long kiss—Antonio and Alfred share a quirky-eyebrow glance—and Feliciano hops up so Ludwig has no choice but to hold him in, fittingly, bridal style. Lovino joins the rest of the audience in applause. Feliciano, the little pup Lovino used to sing to sleep and help with his shoelaces, is living happily ever after. Even though it felt impossible—many, many times—things are actually working out.

Lovino has to hand Romeo off to Marco when the unpaired Omegas are gathered for the bouquet toss. Behind him, he hears Alfred say, “Go get ’em, hurricane, use those lightning hands,” and a moment later Arthur steps up beside him, grumbling to himself about nonsensical customs. Feliciano, still in Ludwig’s arms, twirls a finger in the air. Ludwig, ever obedient, turns around so Feliciano and throw the bouquet over both of their heads. It arcs up, then drops down almost perfectly into Lovino’s outstretched hands.

Now everyone is grinning at him as they follow the happy couple toward the reception hall—well, everyone but Arthur. Alfred nudges his side with a smirk. “What the heck was that supposed to be? You didn’t even try to catch it!”

Arthur opens his mouth and Francis says quickly, “Ah-ah, you promised no scathing remarks at the ceremony, remember.”

The English Omega sighs. “Fine. You’ll have to wait ’til the reception starts, Jones.”

“Just lemme start eating my cake first, I don’t want you spilling sarcasm all over it.”

This leaves Gilbert, Matthew, Antonio, and Lovino to take up the rear of the crowd. Gilbert puts his arm around Matthew’s waist, hand protective on the swell of his belly, and says, “I hope there’s no feelings, but I think we might beat you to it, Toni.”

Antonio laughs. “No worries.” He twines his fingers with Lovino’s. “We’re not in a hurry.” His lips brush his temple. “Right, mi vida?”

Lovino thinks of the life they’re putting together—the money they’re starting to save now that Antonio’s student loans are paid off, the job interviews Lovino has lined up next week, the tiny ball of fluff they both fell in love with when they inquired after a _Kittens to Good Homes_ sign—and what a beautiful thing it is, to be so secure in where he is, to know he finally belongs.

“Right,” he says, and smiles as Antonio leads him to what happiness awaits.

  
  


_The End._


End file.
